®f>e  Hibvavp 

of  tjje 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF 
NORTH  CAROLINA 


ENDOWED  BY  THE 
DIALECTIC  AND  PHILANTHROPIC 
SOCIETIES 


PS35^5 

.E365 

D33 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2014 


https://archive.org/details/daddylonglegs00webs_1 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


JUDY. 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

BY 

JEAN  WEBSTER 

With  Illustrations 
by  The  Author 


NEW  YORK 
THE  CENTURY  CO. 
1916 


Copyright,  1912,  by 
The  Century  Co. 

Copyright,  1912,  by 
Tm  Ovktis  Publishing  Comfaht 

Published  October, 


TO  YOU 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


* 


* 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


"  BLUE  WEDNESDAY  " 

THE  first  Wednesday  in  every  month 
was  a  Perfectly  Awful  Day  —  a  day 
to  be  awaited  with  dread,  endured  with 
courage  and  forgotten  with  haste.  Every 
floor  must  be  spotless,  every  chair  dustless, 
and  every  bed  without  a  wrinkle.  Ninety- 
seven  squirming  little  orphans  must  be 
scrubbed  and  combed  and  buttoned  into 
freshly  starched  ginghams;  and  all  ninety- 
seven  reminded  of  their  manners,  and  told 
to  say,  "  Yes,  sir,"  "  No,  sir,"  whenever  a 
Trustee  spoke. 

It  was  a  distressing  time;   and  poor 
Jerusha  Abbott,  being  the  oldest  orphan, 
had  to  bear  the  brunt  of  it.    But  this  par- 
ticular first  Wednesday,  like  its  predeces- 
3 

4 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


sors,  finally  dragged  itself  to  a  close. 
Jerusha  escaped  from  the  pantry  where  she 
had  been  making  sandwiches  for  the 
asylum's  guests,  and  turned  upstairs  to  ac- 
:omplish  her  regular  work.  Her  special 
care  was  room  F,  where  eleven  little  tots, 
from  four*  to  seven,  occupied  eleven  little 
cots  set  in  a  row.  Jerusha  assembled  her 
charges,  straightened  their  rumpled  frocks,- 
wiped  their  noses,  and  started  them  in  an 
orderly  and  willing  line  toward  the  dining- 
room  to  engage  themselves  for  a  blessed 
half  hour  with  bread  and  milk  and  prune 
pudding. 

Then  she  dropped  down  on  the  window 
seat  and  leaned  throbbing  temples  against 
the  cool  glass.  She  had  been  on  her  feet 
since  five  that  morning,  doing  everybody's 
bidding,  scolded  and  hurried  by  a  nervous 
matron.  Mrs.  Lippett,  behind  the  scenes, 
did  not  always  maintain  that  calm  and 
pompous  dignity  with  which  she  faced  an 
4 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


audience  of  Trustees  and  lady  visitors. 
Jerusha  gazed  out  across  a  broad  stretch 
of  frozen  lawn,  beyond  the  tall  iron  paling 
that  marked  the  confines  of  the  asylum, 
down  undulating  ridges  sprinkled  with 
country  estates,  to  the  spires  of  the  village 
rising  from  the  midst  of  bare  trees. 

The  day  was  ended  —  quite  successfully, 
so  far  as  she  knew.  The  Trustees  and  the 
visiting  committee  had  made  their  rounds, 
and  read  their  reports,  and  drunk  their  tea, 
and  now  were  hurrying  home  to  their  own 
cheerful  firesides,  to  forget  their  bother- 
some little  charges  for  another  month. 
Jerusha  leaned  forward  watching  with 
curiosity  —  and  a  touch  of  wistfulness  — 
the  stream  of  carriages  and  automobiles 
r  that  rolled  out  of  the  asylum  gates.  In  im- 
agination she  followed  first  one  equipage 
then  another  to  the  big  houses  dotted  along 
the  hillside.  She  pictured  herself  in  a  fur 
coat  and  a  velvet  hat  trimmed  with  feathers 
5 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


leaning  back  in  the  seat  and  nonchalantly 
murmuring  "  Home "  to  the  driver.  But 
on  the  door-sill  of  her  home  the  picture 
grew  blurred. 

Jerusha  had  an  imagination  —  an  im- 
agination, Mrs.  Lippett  told  her,  that  would 
get  her  into  trouble  if  she  did  n't  take  care 
—  but  keen  as  it  was,  it  could  not  carry 
her  beyond  the  front  porch  of  the  houses 
she  would  enter.  Poor,  eager,  adventurous 
little  Jerusha,  in  all  her  seventeen  years, 
had  never  stepped  inside  an  ordinary  house ; 
she  could  not  picture  the  daily  routine  of 
those  other  human  beings  who  carried  on 
their  lives  undiscommoded  by  orphans. 

Je-ru-sha  Ab-bott 
You  are  wan-ted 
In  the  of-fice, 
And  I  think  you 'd 
Better  hurry  up ! 

Tommy    Dillon   who   had    joined  the 
choir,  came  singing  up  the  stairs  and  down 
6 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


the  corridor,  his  chant  growing  louder  a3 
he  approached  room  F.  Jerusha  wrenched 
herself  from  the  window  and  refaced  the 
troubles  of  life. 

"Who  wants  me?"  she  cut  into 
Tommy's  chant  with  a  note  of  sharp  anx- 
iety. 

Mrs.  Lippett  in  the  office, 
And  I  think  she 's  mad. 

Ah-a-men ! 

Tommy  piously  intoned,  but  his  accent 
was  not  entirely  malicious.  Even  the  most 
hardened  little  orphan  felt  sympathy  for  an 
erring  sister  who  was  summoned  to  the 
office  to  face  an  annoyed  matron;  and 
Tommy  liked  Jerusha  even  if  she  did  some- 
times jerk  him  by  the  arm  and  nearly  scrub 
his  nose  off. 

Jerusha  went  without  comment,  but  with 
two  parallel  lines  on  her  brow.  What 
could  have  gone  wrong,  she  wondered. 
Were  the  sandwiches  not  thin  enough? 
Were  there  shells  in  the  nut  cakes?  Had 
7 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

a  lady  visitor  seen  the  hole  in  Susie  Haw- 
thorn's stocking  ?  Had  —  O  horrors !  — 
one  of  the  cherubic  little  babes  in  her  own 
room  F  "  sassed  99  a  Trustee  ? 

The  long  lower  hall  had  not  been  lighted, 
and  as  she  came  downstairs,  a  last  Trustee 
stood,  on  the  point  of  departure,  in  the  open 
door  that  led  to  the  porte-cochere.  Jerusha 
caught  only  a  fleeting  impression  of  the 
man  —  and  the  impression  consisted  en- 
tirely of  tallness.  He  was  waving  his  arm 
toward  an  automobile  waiting  in  the 
curved  drive.  As  it  sprang  into  motion 
and  approached,  head  on  for  an  instant,  the 
glaring  headlights  threw  his  shadow 
sharply  against  the  wall  inside.  The 
shadow  pictured  grotesquely  elongated  legs 
and  arms  that  ran  along  the  floor  and  up 
the  wall  of  the  corridor.  It  looked,  for  all 
the  world,  like  a  huge,  wavering  daddy- 
long-legs. 

Jerusha's  anxious  frown  gave  place  to 
quick  laughter.    She  was  by  nature  a  sunny 
8 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


soul,  and  had  always  snatched  the  tiniest 
excuse  to  be  amused.  If  one  could  derive 
any  sort  of  entertainment  out  of  the  op- 
pressive fact  of  a  Trustee,  it  was  something 
unexpected  to  the  good.  She  advanced  to 
the  office  quite  cheered  by  the  tiny  episode, 
and  presented  a  smiling  face  to  Mrs.  Lip- 
pett.  To  her  surprise  the  matron  was  also, 
if  not  exactly  smiling,  at  least  appreciably 
affable;  she  wore  an  expression  almost  as 
pleasant  as  the  one  she  donned  for  visitors. 

"  Sit  down,  Jerusha,  I  have  something 
to  say  to  you.'* 

Jerusha  dropped  into  the  nearest  chair 
and  waited  with  a  touch  of  breathlessness. 
An  automobile  flashed  past  the  window; 
Mrs.  Lippett  glanced  after  it. 

"  Did  you  notice  the  gentleman  who  has 
just  gone?  " 

"  I  saw  his  back." 

"  He   is   one  of  our  most  affluent ial 
Trustees,  and  has  given  large  sums  of 
money  toward  the  asylum's  support    I  am 
9 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


not  at  liberty  to  mention  his  name;  he  ex- 
pressly stipulated  that  he  was  to  remain  un- 
known." 

Jerusha's  eyes  widened  slightly;  she  was 
not  accustomed  to  being  summoned  to  the 
office  to  discuss  the  eccentricities  of  Trustees 
with  the  matron. 

"  This  gentleman  has  taken  an  interest 
in  several  of  our  boys.  You  remember 
Charles  Benton  and  Henry  Freize?  They 
were  both  sent  through  college  by  Mr. 
—  er  —  this  Trustee,  and  both  have  repaid 
with  hard  work  and  success  the  money  that 
was  so  generously  expended.  Other  pay- 
ment the  gentleman  does  not  wish.  Here- 
tofore his  philanthropies  have  been  directed 
solely  toward  the  boys;  I  have  never  been 
able  to  interest  him  in  the  slightest  degree 
in  any  of  the  girls  in  the  institution,  no 
matter  how  deserving.  He  does  not,  I 
may  tell  you,  care  for  girls." 

"  No,  ma'am,"  Jerusha  murmured,  since 
10 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


some  reply  seemed  to  be  expected  at  this 
point. 

"  To-day  at  the  regular  meeting,  the 
question  of  your  future  was  brought  up." 

Mrs.  Lippett  allowed  a  moment  of  silence 
to  fall,  then  resumed  in  a  slow,  placid  man- 
ner extremely  trying  to  her  hearer's  sud- 
denly tightened  nerves. 

"  Usually,  as  you  know,  the  children  are 
not  kept  after  they  are  sixteen,  but  an  ex- 
ception was  made  in  your  case.  You  had 
finished  our  school  at  fourteen,  and  having 
done  so  well  in  your  studies  —  not  always, 
I  must  say,  in  your  conduct  ■ —  it  was  de- 
termined to  let  you  go  on  in  the  village 
high  school.  Now  you  are  finishing  that, 
and  of  course  the  asylum  cannot  be  re- 
sponsible any  longer  for  your  support.  As 
it  is,  you  have  had  two  years  more  than 
most." 

Mrs.  Lippett  overlooked  the  fact  that 
Jerusha  had  worked  hard  for  her  board 
ii 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


during  those  two  years,  that  the  conven- 
ience of  the  asylum  had  come  first 'and  her 
education  second;  that  on  days  like  the 
present  she  was  kept  at  home  to  scrub. 

"  As  I  say,  the  question  of  your  future 
was  brought  up  and  your  record  was  dis- 
cussed—  thoroughly  discussed. " 

Mrs.  Lippett  brought  accusing  eyes  to 
bear  upon  the  prisoner  in  the  dock,  and  the 
prisoner  looked  guilty  because  it  seemed  to 
be  expected  —  not  because  she  could  re- 
member any  strikingly  black  pages  in  her 
record. 

"  Of  course  the  usual  disposition  of  one 
in  your  place  would  be  to  put  you  in  a 
position  where  you  could  begin  to  work, 
but  you  have  done  well  in  school  in  certain 
branches;  it  seems  that  your  work  in  English 
has  even  been  brilliant.  Miss  Pritchard 
who  is  on  our  visiting  committee  is  also  on 
the  school  board;  she  has  been  talking  with 
your  rhetoric  teacher,  and  made  a  speech 
in  your  favor.    She  also  read  aloud  an 

12 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


essay  that  you  had  written  entitled,  '  Blue 
Wednesday.'  " 

Jerusha's  guilty  expression  this  time  was 
not  assumed. 

"  It  seemed  to  me  that  you  showed  little 
gratitude  in  holding  up  to  ridicule  the  insti- 
tution that  has  done  so  much  for  you. 
Had  you  not  managed  to  be  funny  I  doubt 
if  you  would  have  been  forgiven.  But 

fortunately  for  you,   Mr.   ,  that  is, 

the  gentleman  who  has  just  gone  — 
appears  to  have  an  immoderate  sense  of 
humor.  On  the  strength  of  that  imper- 
tinent paper,  he  has  offered  to  send  you  to 
college." 

"  To  college  ?  "    Jerusha's  eyes  grew  big. 

Mrs.  Lippett  nodded. 

"  He  waited  to  discuss  the  terms  with  me. 
They  are  unusual.  The  gentleman,  I  may 
say,  is  erratic.  He  believes  that  you  have 
originality,  and  he  is  planning  to  educate 
you  to  become  a  writer." 

"  A  writer  ? "  Jerusha's  mind  was 
13 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


numbed.  She  could  only  repeat  Mrs.  Lip* 
pett's  words. 

"  That  is  his  wish.  Whether  anything 
will  come  of  it,  the  future  will  show.  He 
is  giving  you  a  very  liberal  allowance,  al- 
most, for  a  girl  who  has  never  had  any  ex- 
perience in  taking  care  of  money,  too  lib- 
eral. But  he  planned  the  matter  in  detail, 
and  I  did  not  feel  free  to  make  any  sug- 
gestions. You  are  to  remain  here  through 
the  summer,  and  Miss  Pritchard  has  kindly 
offered  to  superintend  your  outfit.  Your 
board  and  tuition  will  be  paid  directly  to 
the  college,  and  you  will  receive  in  addition 
during  the  four  years  you  are  there,  an 
allowance  of  thirty-five  dollars  a  month. 
This  will  enable  you  to  enter  on  the  same 
standing  as  the  other  students.  The  money 
will  be  sent  to  you  by  the  gentleman's 
private  secretary  once  a  month,  and  in  re- 
turn, you  will  write  a  letter  of  acknowl- 
edgment once  a  month.  That  is  —  you  are 
not  to  thank  him  for  the  money ;  he  doesn't 
14 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


care  to  have  that  mentioned,  but  you  are 
to  write  a  letter  telling  of  the  progress  in 
your  studies  and  the  details  of  your  daily 
life.  Just  such  a  letter  as  you  would  write 
to  your  parents  if  they  were  living. 

"  These  letters  will  be  addressed  to  Mr. 
John  Smith  and  will  be  sent  in  care  of  the 
secretary.  The  gentleman's  name  is  not 
John  Smith,  but  he  prefers  to  remain  un- 
known. To  you  he  will  never  be  anything 
but  John  Smith.  His  reason  in  requiring 
the  letters  is  that  he  thinks  nothing  so  fos- 
ters facility  in  literary  expression  as  letter- 
writing.  Since  you  have  no  family  with 
whom  to  correspond,  he  desires  you  to  write 
in  this  way;  also,  he  wishes  to  keep  track 
of  your  progress.  He  will  never  answer 
your  letters,  nor  in  the  slightest  particular 
take  any  notice  of  them.  He  detests  let- 
ter-writing, and  does  not  wish  you  to  be- 
come a  burden.  If  any  point  should  ever 
arise  where  an  answer  would  seem  to  be 
imperative  —  such  as  in  the  event  of  your 
15 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


being  expelled,  which  I  trust  will  not  occur 
—  you  may  correspond  wTith  Mr.  Griggs, 
his  secretary.  These  monthly  letters  are 
absolutely  obligatory  on  your  part;  they 
are  the  only  payment  that  Mr.  Smith  re- 
quires, so  you  must  be  as  punctilious  in  send- 
ing them  as  though  it  were  a  bill  that  you 
were  paying.  I  hope  that  they  will  always 
be  respectful  in  tone  and  will  reflect  credit 
on  your  training.  You  must  remember 
that  you  are  writing  to  a  Trustee  of  the 
John  Grier  Home." 

Jerusha's  eyes  longingly  sought  the 
door.  Her  head  was  in  a  whirl  of  ex- 
citement, and  she  wished  only  to  escape 
from  Mrs.  Lippett's  platitudes,  and  think. 
She  rose  and  took  a  tentative  step  back- 
wards. Mrs.  Lippett  detained  her  with  a 
gesture;  it  was  an  oratorical  opportunity 
not  to  be  slighted. 

"  I  trust  that  you  are  properly  grateful 
for  this  very  rare  good  fortune  that  has 
befallen  you?  Not  many  girls  in  your  posi- 
16 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


tion  ever  have  such  an  opportunity  to  rise 
in  the  world  You  must  always  remem- 
ber—" 

"I  —  yes,  ma'am,  thank  you.  I  think, 
if  that 's  all,  I  must  go  and  sew  a  patch  on 
Freddie  Perkins's  trousers." 

The  door  closed  behind  her,  and  Mrs. 
Lippett  watched  it  with  dropped  jaw,  her 
peroration  in  mid-air. 


17 


THE  LETTERS  OF  MISS  JERUSHA 
ABBOTT 

to 

MR.  DADDY-LONG-LEGS  SMITH 


215  Fergussen  Hall, 

September  24th. 

Dear  Kind-Trust ee-Who-Sends-Or phans-t o- 
College, 

Here  I  am!  I  traveled  yesterday  for 
four  hours  in  a  train.  It 's  a  funny  sensa- 
tion is  n't  it?    I  never  rode  in  one  before. 

College  is  the  biggest,  most  bewildering 
place  —  I  get  lost  whenever  I  leave  my 
room.  I  will  write  you  a  description  later 
when  I  'in  feeling  less  muddled ;  also  I  will 
tell  you  about  my  lessons.  Classes  don't 
begin  until  Monday  morning,  and  this  is 
Saturday  night.  But  I  wanted  to  write  a 
letter  first  just  to  get  acquainted. 

It  seems  queer  to  be  writing  letters  to 
somebody  you  don't  know.  It  seems  queer 
21 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


for  mfc  to  be  writing  letters  at  all  —  I've 
never  written  more  than  three  or  four  in 
my  life,  so  please  overlook  it  if  these  are 
not  a  model  kind. 

Before  leaving  yesterday  morning,  Mrs. 
Lippett  and  I  had  a  very  serious  talk.  She 
told  me  how  to  behave  all  the  rest  of  my 
life,  and  especially  how  to  behave  toward 
the  kind  gentleman  who  is  doing  so  much 
for  me.  I  must  take  care  to  be  Very  Re- 
spectful. 

But  how  can  one  be  very  respectful  to  a 
person  who  wishes  to  be  called  John 
Smith  ?  Why  could  n't  you  have  picked 
out  a  name  with  a  little  personality?  I 
might  as  well  write  letters  to  Dear  Hitch- 
ing-Post  or  Dear  Clothes-Pole. , 

I  have  been  thinking  about  you  a  great 
deal  this  summer;  having  somebody  take 
an  interest  in  me  after  all  these  years,  makes 
me  feel  as  though  I  had  found  a  sort  of 
family.    It  seems  as  though  I  belonged  to 

22 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


somebody  now,  and  it 's  a  very  comforta- 
ble sensation.    I  must  say,  however,  that 
when  I  think  about  you,  my  imagination 
has  very  little  to  work  upon.    There  are 
just  three  things  that  I  know : 
I.  You  are  tall. 
II.  You  are  rich. 
III.  You  hate  girls. 

I  suppose  I  might  call  you  Dear  Mr.  Girl- 
Hater.  Only  that 's  sort  of  insulting  to 
me.  Or  Dear  Mr.  Rich-Man,  but  that 's 
insulting  to  you,  as  though  money  were 
the  only  important  thing  about  you.  Be- 
sides, being  rich  is  such  a  very  external 
quality.  Maybe  you  won't  stay  rich  all 
your  life;  lots  of  very  clever  men  get 
smashed  up  in  Wall  Street.  But  at  least 
you  will  stay  tall  all  your  life!  So  I've 
decided  to  call  you  Dear  Daddy-Long- 
Legs.  I  hope  you  won't  mind.  It 's  just 
a  private  pet  name  —  we  won't  tell  Mrs. 
Lippett. 

23 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


The  ten  o'clock  bell  is  going  to  ring  in 
two  minutes.  Our  day  is  divided  into 
sections  by  bells.  We  eat  and  sleep  and 
study  by  bells.  It  *s  very  enlivening;  I  feel 
like  a  fire  horse  all  of  the  time.  There  it 
goes !    Lights  out.    Good  night. 

Observe  with  what  precision  I  obey  rules 
—  due  to  my  training  in  the  John  Grier 
Home. 

Yours  most  respectfully, 

Jerusha  Abbott. 
To  Mr.  Daddy-Long-Legs  Smith. 


24 


October  ist. 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

I  love  college  and  I  love  you  for  send- 
ing me  —  I 'm  very,  very  happy,  and  so 
excited  every  moment  of  the  time  that  I 
can  scarcely  sleep.  You  can't  imagine  how 
different  it  is  from  the  John  Grier  Home. 
I  never  dreamed  there  was  such  a  place  in 
the  world.  I  'm  feeling  sorry  for  every- 
body who  is  n't  a  girl  and  who  can't  come 
here;  I  am  sure  the  college  you  attended 
when  you  were  a  boy  couldn't  have  been 
so  nice. 

My  room  is  up  in  a  tower  that  used  to 
be  the  contagious  ward  before  they  built 
the  new  infirmary.  There  are  three  other 
girls  on  the  same  floor  of  the  tower  —  a 
Senior  who  wears  spectacles  and  is  always 
asking  us  please  to  be  a  little  more  quiet, 
25 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


and  two  Freshmen  named  Sallie  McBride 
and  Julia  Rutledge  Pendleton.  Sallie  has 
red  hair  and  a  turn-up  nose  and  is  quite 
friendly;  Julia  comes  from  one  of  the  first 
families  in  New  York  and  has  n't  noticed 
me  yet.  They  room  together  and  the 
Senior  and  I  have  singles.  Usually  Fresh- 
men can't  get  singles;  they  are  very  scarce, 
but  I  got  one  without  even  asking.  I  sup- 
pose the'  registrar  did  n't  think  it  would  be 
right  to  ask  a  properly  brought-up  girl  to 
room  with  a  foundling.  You  see  there  are 
advantages ! 

My  room  is  on  the  northwest  corner  with 
two  windows  and  a  view.  After  you 've 
lived  in  a  ward  for  eighteen  years  with 
twenty  room-mates,  it  is  restful  to  be 
alone.  This  is  the  first  chance  I 've  ever 
had  to  get  acquainted  with  Jerusha  Abbott 
I  think  I 'm  going  to  like  her. 

Do  you  think  you  are? 


26 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

Tuesday. 

They  are  organizing  the  Freshman 
basket-ball  team  and  there 's  just  a  chance 
that  I  shall  make  it.  I 'm  little  of  course, 
but  terribly  quick  and  wiry  and  tough. 
While  the  others  are  hopping  about  in  the 
air,  I  can  dodge  under  their  feet  and  grab 
the  ball.  It's  loads  of  fun  practising  — 
out  in  the  athletic  field  in  the  afternoon 
with  the  trees  all  red  and  yellow  and  the 
air  full  of  the  smell  of  burning  leaves,  and 
everybody  laughing  and  shouting.  These 
are  the  happiest  girls  I  ever  saw  —  and  I 
am  the  happiest  of  all! 

I  meant  to  write  a  long  letter  and  tell 
you  all  the  things  I  'm  learning  (Mrs.  Lip- 
pett  said  you  wanted  to  know)  but  7th 
hour  has  just  rung,  and  in  ten  minutes  I 'm 
due  at  the  athletic  field  in  gymnasium 
clothes.  Don't  you  hope  I  '11  make  the 
team  ? 

Yours  always, 

Jerusha  Abbott. 

27 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 
P.  So    (9  o'clock.) 

Sallie  McBride  just  poked  her  head  in 
at  my  door.    This  is  what  she  said : 

"  I 'm  so  homesick  that  I  simply  can't 
stand  it.    Do  you  feel  that  way?  " 

T  smiled  a  little  and  said  no,  I  thought 
I  could  pull  through.  At  least  homesick- 
ness is  one  disease  that  I  Ve  escaped !  I 
never  heard  of  anybody  being  asylumsick, 
did  you? 


28 


October  ioth. 


Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

Did  you  ever  hear  of  Michael  Angelo? 

He  was  a  famous  artist  who  lived  in 
Italy  in  the  Middle  Ages.  Everybody  in 
English  Literature  seemed  to  know  about 
him  and  the  whole  class  laughed  because  I 
thought  he  was  an  archangel.  He  sounds 
like  an  archangel,  does  n't  he  ?  The  trouble 
with  college  is  that  you  are  expected  to  know 
such  a  lot  of  things  you  've  never  learned. 
It 's  very  embarrassing  at  times.  But  now, 
when  the  girls  talk  about  things  that  I  never 
heard  of,  I  just  keep  still  and  look  them  up 
in  the  encyclopedia. 

I  made  an  awful  mistake  the  first  day. 
Somebody  mentioned  Maurice  Maeterlinck, 
and  I  asked  if  she  was  a  Freshman.  That 
29 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


joke  has  gone  all  over  college.  But  any- 
way, I 'm  just  as  bright  in  class  as  any  of 
the  others  —  and  brighter  than  some  of 
them! 

Do  you  care  to  know  how  I  've  fur- 
nished my  room?  It's  a  symphony  in 
brown  and  yellow.  The  wall  was  tinted 
buff,  and  I  Ve  bought  yellow  denim  cur- 
tains and  cushions  and  a  mahogany  desk 
(second  hand  for  three  dollars)  and  a 
rattan  chair  and  a  brown  rug  with  an  ink 
spot  in  the  middle.  I  stand  the  chair  over 
the  spot. 

The  windows  are  up  high ;  you  can't  look 
out  from  an  ordinary  seat.  But  I  un- 
screwed the  looking-glass  from  the  back 
of  the  bureau,  upholstered  the  top,  and 
moved  it  up  against  the  window.  It 's  just 
the  right  height  for  a  window  seat.  You 
pull  out  the  drawers  like  steps  and  walk 
up.    Very  comfortable! 

Sallie  McBride  helped  me  choose  the 
things  at  the  Senior  auction.  She  has  lived 
30 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

in  a  house  all  her  life  and  knows  about 
furnishing.  You  can't  imagine  what  fun 
it  is  to  shop  and  pay  with  a  real  five-dollar 
bill  and  get  some  change  —  when  you  've 
never  had  more  than  a  nickel  in  your  life. 
I  assure  you,  Daddy  dear,  I  do  appreciate 
that  allowance. 

Sallie  is  the  most  entertaining  person  in 
the  world  —  and  Julia  Rutledge  Pendleton 
the  least  so.  It 's  queer  what  a  mixture 
the  registrar  can  make  in  the  matter  of 
room-mates.  Sallie  thinks  everything  is 
funny  —  even  flunking  —  and  Julia  is 
bored  at  everything.  She  never  makes  the 
slightest  effort  to  be  amiable.  She  believes 
that  if  you  are  a  Pendleton,  that  fact  alone 
admits  you  to  heaven  without  any  further 
examination.  Julia  and  I  were  born  to  be 
enemies. 

And  now  I  suppose  you  Ve  been  waiting 
very  impatiently  to  hear  what  I  am  learning? 

I.  Latin:  Second  Punic  war.  Hanni- 
bal and  his  forces  pitched  camp  at  Lake 
3i 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


Trasimenus  last  night.  They  prepared  an 
ambuscade  for  the  Romans,  and  a  battle 
took  place  at  the  fourth  watch  this  morn- 
ing.   Romans  in  retreat. 

II.  French:  24  pages  of  the  "  Three 
Musketeers "  and  third  conjugation,  ir- 
regular verbs. 

III.  Geometry:  Finished  cylinders;  now 
doing  cones. 

IV.  English:  Studying  exposition.  My 
style  improves  daily  in.  clearness  and  brev- 
ity. 

V.  Physiology:  Reached  the  digestive 
system.  Bile  and  the  pancreas  next  time. 
Yours,  on  the  way  to  being  educated, 

Jerusha  Abbott. 

P.  S.  I  hope  you  never  touch  alcohol, 
Daddy? 

It  does  dreadful  things  to  your  liver. 


32 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


Wednesday 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

I  Ve  changed  my  name. 

I 'm  still  "  Jerusha "  in  the  catalogue* 
but  I 'm  "  Judy  "  every  place  else.  It 's- 
sort  of  too  bad,  is  n't  it,  to  have  to  give 
yourself  the  only  pet  name  you  ever  had? 
I  did  n't  quite  make  up  the  Judy  though. 
That 's  what  Freddie  Perkins  used  to  call 
me  before  he  could  talk  plain. 

I  wish  Mrs.  Lippett  would  use  a  little 
more  ingenuity  about  choosing  babies' 
names.  She  gets  the  last  names  out  of  the 
telephone  book  —  you  '11  find  Abbott  on 
the  first  page  —  and  she  picks  the  Christian 
names  up  anywhere;  she  got  Jerusha  from 
a  tombstone.  I 've  always  hated  it ;  but  I 
rather  like  Judy.  It 's  such  a  silly  name. 
It  belongs  to  the  kind  of  girl  I 'm  not  — 
a  sweet  little  blue-eyed  thing,  petted  and 
spoiled  by  all  the  family,  who  romps  her 
way  through  life  without  any  cares. 
Would  n't  it  be  nice  to  be  like  that  ?  What- 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


ever  faults  I  may  have,  no  one  can  ever 
accuse  me  of  having  been  spoiled  by  my 
family!  But  it's  sort  of  fun  to  pretend 
I 've  been.  In  the  future  please  always  ad- 
dress me  as  Judy. 

Do  you  want  to  know  something?  I 
have  three  pairs  of  kid  gloves.  I  've  had 
kid  mittens  before  from  the  Christmas  tree, 
but  never  real  kid  gloves  with  five  fingers. 
I  take  them  out  and  try  them  on  every 
little  while.  It 's  all  I  can  do  not  to  wear 
them  to  classes. 

(Dinner  bell.  Good-by.) 

Friday. 

What  do  you  think,  Daddy?  The 
English  instructor  said  that  my  last  paper 
shows  an  unusual  amount  of  originality. 
She  did,  truly.  Those  were  her  words.  It 
does  n't  seem  possible,  does  it,  considering 
the  eighteen  years  of  training  that  I 've 
had?    The  aim  of  the  John  Grier  Home 


34 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


(as  you  doubtless  know  and  heartily  ap- 
prove of)  is  to  turn  the  ninety-seven  or- 
phans into  ninety-seven  twins. 

The  unusual  artistic  ability  which  I  ex- 
hibit, was  developed  at  an  early  age  through 

ANY  ORPHAN 

Reav  Efeviijion    Front  £iev<?t(on 


35 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


drawing  chalk  pictures  of  Mrs.  Lippett  on 
the  woodshed  door. 

I  hope  that  I  don't  hurt  your  feelings 
when  I  criticize  the  home  of  my  youth? 
But  you  have  the  upper  hand,  you  know, 
for  if  I  become  too  impertinent,  you  can 
always  stop  payment  on  your  checks.  That 
is  n't  a  very  polite  thing  to  say  —  but  you 
can't  expect  me  to  have  any  manners;  a 
foundling  asylum  is  n't  a  young  ladies'  fin- 
ishing school. 

You  know,  Daddy,  it  is  n't  the  work  that 
is  going  to  be  hard  in  college.  It 's  the 
play.  Half  the  time  I  don't  know  what  the 
girls  are  talking  about;  their  jokes  seem 
to  relate  to  a  past  that  every  one  but  me 
has  shared.  I 'm  a  foreigner  in  the 
world  and  I  don't  understand  the  language. 
It 's  a  miserable  feeling.  I 've  had  it  all 
my  life.  At  the  high  school  the  girls 
would  oLand  in  groups  and  just  look  at  me. 
I  was  queer  and  different  and  everybody 
knew  it.  I  could  feel  "  John  Grier  Home  " 
36 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


written  on  my  face.  And  then  a  few  char- 
itable ones  would  make  a  point  of  coming 
up  and  saying  something  polite.  /  hated 
every  one  of  them  —  the  charitable  ones 
most  of  all. 

Nobody  here  knows  that  I  was  brought 
up  in  an  asylum.  I  told  Sallie  McBride 
that  my  mother  and  father  were  dead,  and 
that  a  kind  old  gentleman  was  sending  me 
to  college  —  which  is  entirely  true  so  far 
as  it  goes.  I  don't  want  you  to  think  I 
am  a  coward,  but  I  do  want  to  be  like  the 
other  girls,  and  that  Dreadful  Home  loom- 
ing over  my  childhood  is  the  one  great 
big  difference.  If  I  can  turn  my  back  on 
that  and  shut  out  the  remembrance,  I  think 
I  might  be  just  as  desirable  as  any  other 
girl.  I  don't  believe  there 's  any  real,  un- 
derneath difference,  do  you? 

Anyway,  Sallie  McBride  likes  me! 

Yours  ever,  & 
Judy  Abbott. 
(Nee  Jerusha.) 

37 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


Saturday  morning. 
I  ?ve  just  been  reading  this  letter  over 
and  it  sounds  pretty  un-cheerful.  But 
can't  you  guess  that  I  have  a  special  topic 
due  Monday  morning  and  a  review  in 
geometry  and  a  very  sneezy  cold? 

Sunday. 

I  forgot  to  mail  this  yesterday  so  I  will 
add  an  indignant  postscript.  We  had  a 
bishop  this  morning,  and  what  do  you  think 
he  said? 

"  The  most  beneficent  promise  made  us  in 
the  Bible  is  this,  '  The  poor  ye  have  always 
with  you.'  They  were  put  here  in  order  to 
keep  us  charitable." 

The  poor,  please  observe,  being  a  sort  of 
useful  domestic  animal.  If  I  had  n't  grown 
into  such  a  perfect  lady,  I  should  have  gone 
up  after  service  and  told  him  what  I  thought 


33 


October  25th. 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

I  Ve  made  the  basket-ball  team  and  you 
ought  to  see  the  bruise  on  my  left  shoulder. 
It 's  blue  and  mahogany  with  little  streaks 
of  orange.  Julia  Pendleton  tried  for  the 
team,  but  she  did  n't  make  it.    Hooray ! 

You  see  what  a  mean  disposition  I  have. 

College  gets  nicer  and  nicer.  I  like  the 
girls  and  the  teachers  and  the  classes  and 
the  campus  and  the  things  to  eat.  W e  have 
ice-cream  twice  a  week  and  we  never  have 
corn-meal  mush. 

You  only  wanted  to  hear  from  me  once 
a  month,  did  n't  you  ?  And  I 've  been  pep- 
pering you  with  letters  every  few  days! 
But  I 've  been  so  excited  about  all  these 
new  adventures  that  I  must  talk  to  some- 
body ;  and  you  're  the  only  one  I  know. 
39 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

Please  excuse  my  exuberance ;  I  '11  settle 
pretty  soon.  If  my  letters  bore  you,  you 
can  always  toss  them  into  the  waste-basket. 
I  promise  not  to  write  another  till  the  mid- 
dle of  November. 

Yours  most  loquaciously, 

Judy  Abbott. 


40 


November  15th. 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

Listen  to  what  I  've  learned  to-day : 

The  area  of  the  convex  surface  of  the 
frustum  of  a  regular  pyramid  is  half  the 
product  of  the  sum  of  the  perimeters  of 
its  bases  by  the  altitude  of  either  of  its 
trapezoids. 

It  does  n't  sound  true,  but  it  is  —  I 
can  prove  it ! 

You  Ve  never  heard  about  my  clothes, 
have  you,  Daddy?  Six  dresses,  all  new 
and  beautiful  and  bought  for  me  — not 
handed  down  from  somebody  bigger. 
Perhaps  you  don't  realize  what  a  climax 
that  marks  in  the  career  of  an  orphan? 
You  gave  them  to  me,  and  I  am  very,  very, 
very  much  obliged.  It 's  a  fine  thing  to  be 
4i 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


educated  —  but  nothing  compared  to  the  diz- 
zying   experience    of    owning    six  new 

dresses.    Miss  Pritchard  who  is  on  the, 

■i 

visiting  committee  picked  them  out  — not 
Mrs.  Lippett,  thank  goodness.  I  have  an 
evening  dress,  pink  mull  over  silk  (I'm 
perfectly  beautiful  in  that),  and  a  blue 
church  dress,  and  a  dinner  dress  of  red 
veiling  with  Oriental  trimming  (makes  me 
look  like  a  Gipsy)  and  another  of  rose- 
colored  challis,  and  a  gray  street  suit,  and 
an  every-day  dress  for  classes.  That 
would  n't  be  an  awfully  big  wardrobe  for 
Julia  Rutledge  Pendleton,  perhaps,  but  for 
Jerusha  Abbott  —  Oh,  my ! 

I  suppose  you  're  thinking  now  what  a 
frivolous,  shallow,  little  beast  she  is,  and 
what  a  waste  of  money  to  educate  a 
girl? 

But  Daddy,  if  you 'd  been  dressed  in 
checked  ginghams  all  your  life,  you 'd  ap- 
preciate how  I  feel.    And  when  I  started 
to  the  high  school,  I  entered  upon  another 
42 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


period  even  worse  than  the  checked  ging- 
hams. 

The  poor  box. 

You  can't  know  how  I  dreaded  appearing 
in  school  in  those  miserable  poor-box 
dresses.  I  was  perfectly  sure  to  be  put 
down  in  class  next  to  the  girl  who  first 
owned  my  dress,  and  she  would  whisper 
and  giggle  and  point  it  out  to  the  others. 
The  bitterness  of  wearing  your  enemies' 
cast-off  clothes  eats  into  your  soul.  If  I 
wore  silk  stockings  for  the  rest  of  my  life, 
I  don't  believe  I  could  obliterate  the  scar. 

LATEST  WAR  BULLETIN! 
News  from  the  Scene  of  Action. 

At  the  fourth  watch  on  Thursday  the 
13th  of  November,  Hannibal  routed  the  ad- 
vance guard  of  the  Romans  and  led  the  Car- 
thaginian forces  over  the  mountains  into  the 
plains  of  Casilinum.  A  cohort  of  light 
armed  Numidians  engaged  the  infantry  of 
Quintus  Fabius  Maximus.  Two  battles 
43 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


and  light  skirmishing.  Romans  repulsed 
with  heavy  losses. 

I  have  the  honor  of  being, 
Your  special  correspondent  from  the 
front 

J.  Abbott. 

P.  S.  I  know  I  'm  not  to  expect  any  let- 
ters in  return,  and  I 've  been  warned  not 
to  bother  you  with  questions,  but  tell  me, 
Daddy,  just  this  once  —  are  you  awfully 
old  or  just  a  little  old?  And  are  you  per- 
fectly bald  or  just  a  little  bald?  It  is  very 
difficult  thinking  about  you  in  the  abstract 
like  a  theorem  in  geometry. 

Given  a  tall  rich  man  who  hates  girls, 
but  is  very  generous  to  one  quite  imperti- 
nent girl,  what  does  he  look  like? 

R.S.V.R 


44 


December  19th. 

Dear  D addy-L ong-Legs, 

You  never  answered  my  question  and  it 
was  very  important. 

ARE  YOU  BALD? 

I  have  it  planned  exact- 
ly what  you  look  like  — 
very  satisfactorily  —  un- 
til I  reach  the  top  of 
your  head,  and  then  I  am 
stuck.  I  can't  decide 
whether  you  have  white 
hair  or  black  hair  or  sort  / 1  n 
of  sprinkly  gray  hair  or  /  f  \ 
maybe  none  at  all. 

Here  is  your  portrait : 

But   the    problem  is, 
shall  I  add  some  hair? 

Would    you    like  to 
45 


j 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


know  what  color  your  eyes  are  ?  They  're 
gray,  and  your  eyebrows  stick  out  like 
a  porch  roof  (beetling,  they  're  called 
in  novels)  and  your  mouth  is  a  straight 
line  with  a  tendency  to  turn  down  at  the 
corners.  Oh,  you  see,  I  know!  You're  a 
snappy  old  thing  with  a  temper. 

(Chapel  bell.) 

9.45  P.  M. 

I  have  a  new  unbreakable  rule:  never, 
never  to  study  at  night  no  matter  how 
many  written  reviews  are  coming  in  the 
morning.  Instead,  I  read  just  plain 
books  —  I  have  tq,  you  know,  because  there 
are  eighteen  blank  years  behind  me.  You 
would  n't  believe,  Daddy,  what  an  abyss 
of  ignorance  my  mind  is;  I  am  just  realiz- 
ing the  depths  myself.  The  things  that 
most  girls  with  a  properly  assorted  family 
and  a  home  and  friends  and  a  library  know 
by  absorption,  I  have  never  heard  of.  For 
example:  * 

I    never    read    "  Mother    Goose 99  or 

46 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


4  David  Copperfield  "  or  "  Ivanhoe  "  or 
*'  Cinderella  "  or  "  Blue  Beard  "  or  "  Rob- 
inson Crusoe  "  or  "  Jane  Eyre  "  or  "  Alice 
in  Wonderland "  or  a  word  of  Rudyard 
Kipling.  I  did  n't  know  that  Henry  the 
Eighth  was  married  more  than  once  or  that 
Shelley  was  a  poet.  I  did  n't  know  that 
people  used  to  be  monkeys  and  that  the 
Garden  of  Eden  was  a  beautiful  myth.  I 
didn't  know  that  R.L.S.  stood  for  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson  or  that  George  Eliot  was 
a  lady.  I  had  never  seen  a  picture  of 
the  "  Mona  Lisa"  and  (it's  true  but  you 
won't  believe  it)  I  had  never  heard  of 
Sherlock  Holmes. 

•  Now,  I  know  all  of  these  things  and  a 
lot  of  others  besides,  but  you  can  see  how 
much  I  need  to  catch  up.  And  oh,  but 
it 's  fun !  I  look  forward  all  day  to  even- 
ing, and  then  I  put  an  "  engaged  "  on  the 
door  and  get  into  my  nice  red  bath  robe 
and  furry  slippers  and  pile  all  the  cushions 
behind  me  on  the  couch  and  light  the  brass 
47 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


student  lamp  at  my  elbow,  and  read  and 
read  and  read.  One  book  is  n't  enough 
I  have  four  going  at  once.  Just  now, 
they  're  Tennyson's  poems  and  "  Vanity 
Fair"  and  Kipling's  "Plain  Tales"  and 
—  don't  laugh  — "  Little  Women."  I  find 
that  I  am  the  only  girl  in  college  who 
was  n't  brought  up  on  "  Little  Women.'" 
I  haven't  told  anybody  though  (that  would 
stamp  me  as  queer).  I  just  quietly  went 
and  bought  it  with  $1.12  of  my  last  month's 
allowance;  and  the  next  time  somebody 
mentions  pickled  limes,  I  '11  know  what  she 
is  talking  about ! 

(Ten  o'clock  bell.  This  is  a  very  in- 
terrupted letter.) 

Saturday. 

Sir, 

I  have  the  honor  to  report  fresh  explora- 
tions in  the  field  of  geometry.    On  Friday 
last  we  abandoned  our  former  works  in 
parallelopipeds  and  proceeded  to  truncated 
48 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


prisms.  We  are  finding  the  road  rough 
and  very  uphill. 

Sunday. 

The  Christmas  holidays  begin  next  week 
and  the  trunks  are  up.  The  corridors  are  so 
cluttered  that  you  can  hardly  get  through, 
and  everybody  is  so  bubbling  over  with 
excitement  that  studying  is  getting  left  out. 
I 'm  going  to  have  a  beautiful  time  in  vaca- 
tion ;  there 's  another  Freshman  who  lives 
in  Texas  staying  behind,  and  we  are 
planning  to  take  long  walks  and  —  if 
there 's  any  ice  —  learn  to  skate.  Then 
there  is  still  the  whole  library  to  be  read 
—  and  three  empty  weeks  to  do  it  in ! 

Good-by,  Daddy,  I  hope  that  you  are 
feeling  as  happy  as  I  am. 

Yours  ever, 

Judy. 

P.  S.  Don't  forget  to  answer  my  ques- 
tion.   If  you  don't  want  the  trouble  of 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


writing,  have  your  secretary  telegraph. 
He  can  just  say : 

Mr.  Smith  is  quite  bald, 
or 

Mr.  Smith  is  not  bald, 
or 

Mr.  Smith  has  white  hair. 

And  you  can  deduct  the  twenty-five 
cents  out  of  my  allowance. 

Good-by  till  January  —  and  a  merry 
Christmas ! 


50 


Toward  the  end  of 
the  Christmas  vacation. 
Exact  date  unknown. 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

Is  it  snowing  where  you  are?  All  the 
world  that  I  see  from  my  tower  is  draped 
in  white  and  the  flakes  are  coming  down 
as  big  as  pop-corn.  It 's  late  afternoon 
—  the  sun  is  just  setting  (a  cold  yellow 
color)  behind  some  colder  violet  hills,  and 
I  am  up  in  my  window  seat  using  the  last 
light  to  write  to  you. 

Your  five  gold  pieces  were  a  surprise! 
I  'm  not  used  to  receiving  Christmas 
presents.  You  have  already  given  me  such 
lots  of  things  —  everything  I  have,  you 
know  —  that  I  don't  quite  feel  that  I  de- 
serve extras.  But  I  like  them  just  the 
5i 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

same.  Do  you  want  to  know  what  I 
bought  with  my  money  ? 

I.  A  silver  watch  in  a  leather  case  to 
wear  on  my  wrist  and  get  me  to  recitations 
on  time. 

II.  Matthew  Arnold's  poems. 

III.  A  hot  water  bottle. 

IV.  A  steamer  rug.  (My  tower  is 
cold.)  >  < 

V.  Five  hundred  sheets  of  yellow  manu- 
script paper.  (I'm  going  to  commence 
being  an  author  pretty  soon.) 

VI.  A  dictionary  of  synonyms.  (To 
enlarge  the  author's  vocabulary.) 

VII.  (I  don't  much  like  to  confess  this 
last  item,  but  I  will.)    A  pair  of  silk  stock- 

-  ings. 

And  now,  Daddy,  never  say  I  don't  tell 
all! 

It  was  a  very  low  motive,  if  you  must 
know  it,  that  prompted  the  silk  stockings. 
Julia  Pendleton  comes  into  my  room  to  do 
52 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


geometry,  and  she  sits  cross  legged  on  the 
couch  and  wears  silk  stockings  every  night 
But  just  wait  —  as  soon  as  slid  gets  back 
from  vacation  I  shall  go  in  and  sit  on  her 
couch  in  my  silk  stockings.  You  see, 
Daddy,  the  miserable  creature  that  I  am 

—  but  at  least  I  'm  honest ;  and  you  knew 
already,  from  my  asylum  record,  that  I 
wasn't  perfect,  didn't  you? 

To  recapitulate  (that 's  the  way  the  Eng- 
lish instructor  begins  every  other  sentence), 
I  am  very  much  obliged  for  my  seven  pres- 
ents. I  'm  pretending  to  myself  that  they 
came  in  a  box  from  my  family  in  Califor- 
nia. The  watch  is  from  father,  the  rug 
from  mother,  the  hot  water  bottle  from 
grandmother  —  who  '  is  always  worrying 
for  fear  I  shall  catch  cold  in  this  climate 

—  and  the  yellow  paper  from  my  little 
brother  Harry.  My  sister  Isobel  gave  me 
the  silk  stockings,  and  Aunt  Susan  the 
Matthew  Arnold  poems;  Uncle  Harry  (lit- 

53 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


tie  Harry  is  named  for  him)  gave  me  the 
dictionary.  He  wanted  to  send  chocolates, 
but  I  insisted  on  synonyms. 

You  don't  object  do  you,  to  playing  the 
part  of  a  composite  family? 

And  now,  shall  I  tell  you  about  my  vaca- 
tion, or  are  you  only  interested  in  my  edu- 
cation as  such?  I  hope  you  appreciate  the 
delicate  shade  of  meaning  in  "  as  such." 
It  is  the  latest  addition  to  my  vocabulary. 

The  girl  from  Texas  is  named  Leonora 
Fenton.  (Almost  as  funny  as  Jerusha, 
isn't  it?)  I  like  her,  but  not  so  much  as 
Sallie  McBride;  I  shall  never  like  any  one 
so  much  as  Sallie  —  except  you.  I  must 
always  like  you  the  best  of  all,  because 
you  're  my  whole  family  rolled  into  one. 
Leonora  and  I  and  two  Sophomores  have 
walked  'cross  country  every  pleasant  day 
and  explored  the  whole  neighborhood, 
dressed  in  short  skirts  and  knit  jackets  and 
caps,  and  carrying  shinny  sticks  to  whack 
things  with.  Once  we  walked  into  town 
54 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


—  four  miles  —  and  stopped  at  a  restaurant 
where  the  college  girls  go  for  dinner. 
Broiled  lobster  (35  cents)  and  for  dessert, 
buckwheat  cakes  and  maple  syrup  (15 
cents).    Nourishing  and  cheap. 

It  was  such  a  lark!  Especially  for  me, 
because  it  was  so  awfully  different  from 
the  asylum  —  I  feel  like  an  escaped  con- 
vict every  time  I  leave  the  campus.  Before 
I  thought,  I  started  to  tell  the  others  what 
an  experience  I  was  having.  The  cat  was 
almost  out  of  the  bag  when  I  grabbed  it 
by  its  tail  and  pulled  it  back.  It 's  awfully 
hard  for  me  not  to  tell  everything  I  know. 
I 'm  a  very  confiding  soul  by  nature ;  if  I 
did  n't  have  you  to  tell  things  to,  I 'd  burst. 

We  had  a  molasses  candy  pull  last  Friday 
evening,  given  by  the  house  matron  of  Fer- 
gussen  to  the  left-behinds  in  the  other  halls. 
There  were  twenty-two  of  us  altogether, 
Freshmen  and  Sophomores  and  Juniors  and 
Seniors  all  united  in  amicable  accord.  The 
kitchen  is  huge,  with  copper  pots  and  ket- 
55 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


ties  hanging  in  rows  on  the  stone  wall  — 
the  littlest  casserole  among  them  about  the 
size  of  a  wash  boiler.  Four  hundred  girls 
live  in  Fergussen.  The  chef,  in  a  white 
cap  and  apron,  fetched  out  twenty-two  other 
white  caps  and  aprons  —  I  can't  imagine 
where  he  got  so  many  —  and  we  all  turned 
ourselves  into  cooks. 

It  was  great  fun,  though  I  have  seen 
better  candy.  When  it  was  finally  finished, 
and  ourselves  and  the  kitchen  and  the  door- 
knobs all  thoroughly  sticky,  we  organized 
a  procession  and  still  in  our  caps  and 
aprons,  each  carrying  a  big  fork  or  spoon 
or  frying  pan,  we  marched  through  the 
empty  corridors  to  the  officers'  parlor  where 
half-a-dozen  professors  and  instructors 
were  passing  a  tranquil  evening.  We 
serenaded  them  with  college  songs  and  of- 
fered refreshments.  They  accepted  po- 
litely but  dubiously.  We  left  them  sucking 
chunks  of  molasses  candy,  sticky  and 
speechless. 

56 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

So  you  see,  Daddy,  my  education  pro- 
gresses ! 


Don't  you  really  think  that  I  ought  to  be 
an  artist  instead  of  an  author? 

Vacation  will  be  over  in  two  days  and  I 
shall  be  glad  to  see  the  girls  again.  My 
tower  is  just  a  trifle  lonely ;  when  nine  peo- 
ple occupy  a  house  that  was  built  for  four 
hundred,  they  do  rattle  around  a  bit. 

Eleven  pages  —  poor  Daddy,  you  must 
be  tired!  I  meant  this  to  be  just  a  short 
little  thank-you  note  —  but  when  I  get 
started  I  seem  to  have  a  ready  pen. 

Good-by,  and  thank  you  for  thinking  of 
me  —  I  should  be  perfectly  happy  except 
57 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


for  one  little  threatening  cloud  on  the  hori 
zon.    Examinations  come  in  February. 

Yours  with  love, 

Judy. 

P.  S.  Maybe  it  is  n't  proper  to  send 
love?  If  it  isn't,  please  excuse.  But  I 
must  love  somebody  and  there  's  only  you 
and  Mrs.  Lippett  to  choose  between,  so  you 
see  —  you  '11  have  to  put  up  with  it,  Daddy 
dear,  because  I  can't  love  her. 

On  the  Eve. 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

You  should  see  the  way  this  college  is 
studying !  We  Ve  forgotten  we  ever  had 
a  vacation.  Fifty-seven  irregular  verbs 
have  I  introduced  to  my  brain  in  the  past 
four  days  —  I 'm  only  hoping  they  '11  stay 
till  after  examinations. 

Some  of  the  girls  sell  their  text-books 
when  they  're  through  with  them,  but  I  in- 
tend to  keep  mine.  Then  after  I  Ve  grad- 
58 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


uated  I  shall  have  my  whole  education  in  a 
row  in  the  bookcase,  and  when  I  need  to 
use  any  detail,  I  can  turn  to  it  without  the 
slightest  hesitation.  So  much  easier  and 
more  accurate  than  trying  to  keep  it  in  your 
head. 

Julia  Pendleton  dropped  in  this  even- 
ing to  pay  a  social  call,  and  stayed  a  solid 
hour.  She  got  started  on  the  subject  of 
family,  and  I  could  n't  switch  her  off.  She 
wanted  to  know  what  my  mother's  maiden 
name  was  —  did  you  ever  hear  such  an  im- 
pertinent question  to  ask  of  a  person  from 
a  foundling  asylum  ?  I  did  n't  have  the 
courage  to  say  I  did  n't  know,  so  I  just  mis- 
erably plumped  on  the  first  name  I  could 
think  of,  and  that  was  Montgomery.  Then 
she  wanted  to  know  whether  I  belonged  to 
the  Massachusetts  Montgomerys  or  the 
Virginia  Montgomerys. 

Her  mother  was  a  Rutherford.  The 
family  came  over  in  the  ark,  and  were  con- 
nected by  marriage  with  Henry  the  VIII. 
59 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


On  her  father's  side  they  date  back  fur- 
ther than  Adam.  On  the  topmost  branches 
of  her  family  tree  there  's  a  superior  breed 
of  monkeys,  with  very  fine  silky  hair  and 
extra  long  tails. 

I  meant  to  write  you  a  nice,  cheerful,  en- 
tertaining letter  to-night,  but  I 'm  too 
sleepy  —  and  scared.  The  Freshman's  lot 
is  not  a  happy  one. 

Yours,  about  to  be  examined, 

Judy  Abbott0 

Sunday. 

Dearest  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

I  have  some  awful,  awful,  awful  news  to 
tell  you,  but  I  won't  begin  with  it ;  I  '11  try 
to  get  you  in  a  good  humor  first. 

Jerusha  Abbott  has  commenced  to  be 
an  author.  A  poem  entitled,  "  From  my 
Tower,"  appears  in  the  February  Monthly 
—  on  the  first  page,  which  is  a  very  great 
honor  for  a  Freshman.  My  English  in- 
60 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


structor  stopped  me  on  the  way  out  from 
chapel  last  night,  and  said  it  was  a  charm- 
ing piece  of  work  except  for  the  sixth  line, 
which  had  too  many  feet.  I  will  send  you 
a  copy  in  case  you  care  to  read  it. 

Let  me  see  if  I  can't  think  of  something 
else  pleasant  —  Oh,  yes !  I 'm  learning  to 
skate,  and  can  glide  about  quite  respectably 
all  by  myself.  Also  I  've  learned  how  to 
slide  down  a  rope  from  the  roof  of  the 
gymnasium,  and  I  can  vault  a  bar  three 
feet  and  six  inches  high  —  I  hope  shortly 
to  pull  up  to  four  feet. 

We  had  a  very  inspiring  sermon  this 
morning  preached  by  the  Bishop  of  Ala- 
bama. His  text  was :  "  Judge  not  that 
ye  be  not  judged."  It  was  about  the  ne- 
cessity of  overlooking  mistakes  in  others, 
and  not  discouraging  people  by  harsh  judg- 
ments.   I  wish  you  might  have  heard  it. 

This  is  the  sunniest,  most  blinding  win- 
ter afternoon,  with  icicles  dripping  from 
the  fir  trees  and  all  the  world  bending  un- 
61 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


der  a  weight  of  snow  —  except  me,  and 
I 'm  bending  under  a  weight  of  sorrow. 

Now  for  the  news  —  courage,  Judy!  — 
you  must  tell. 

Are  you  surely  in  a  good  humor?  I 
flunked  mathematics  and  Latin  prose.  I 
am  tutoring  in  them,  and  will  take  another 
examination  next  month.  I 'm  sorry  if 
you're  disappointed,  but  otherwise  I  don't 
care  a  bit  because  I  Ve  learned  such  a  lot 
of  things  not  mentioned  in  the  catalogue. 
I 've  read  seventeen  novels  and  bushels  of 
poetry  —  really  necessary  novels  like  "  Van- 
ity Fair "  and  "  Richard  Feverel "  and 
"  Alice  in  Wonderland."  Also  Emerson's 
"  Essays  "  and  Lockhart's  "  Life  of  Scott  " 
and  the  first  volume  of  Gibbon's  "  Roman 
Empire "  and  half  of  Benvenuto  Cellini's 
"  Life  " —  was  n't  he  entertaining?  He 
used  to  saunter  out  and  casually  kill  a  man 
before  breakfast. 

So  you  see,  Daddy,  I 'm  much  more  in- 
telligenf  than  if  I 'd  just  stuck  to  Latin. 
62 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

Will  you  forgive  me  this  once  if  I  promise 
never  to  flunk  again? 

Yours  in  sackcloth, 

Judy. 

NEWS  of  the.  MONTH 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

This  is  an  extra  letter  in  the  middle  of 
the  month  because  I 'm  sort  of  lonely  to- 
night. It's  awfully  stormy;  the  snow  is 
beating  against  my  tower.  All  the  lights 
are  out  on  the  campus,  but  I  drank  black 
coffee  and  I  can't  go  to  sleep. 

I  had  a  supper  party  this  evening  con- 
sisting of  Sallie  and  Julia  and  Leonora 
Fenton  —  and  sardines  and  toasted  muffins 
and  salad  and  fudge  and  coffee.  Julia  said 
she 'd  had  a  good  time,  but  Sallie  stayed  to 
help  wash  the  dishes. 

I  might,  very  usefully,  put  some  time  on 
Latin  to-night  —  but,  there 's  no  doubt 
about  it,  I 'm  a  very  languid  Latin  scholar. 
We 've  finished  Livy  and  De  Senectute  and 
are  now  engaged  with  De  Amicitia  (pro- 
nounced Damn  Icitia). 

Should  you  mind,  just  for  a  little  while, 
pretending  you  are  my  grandmother?  Sal- 
lie has  one  and  Julia  and  Leonora  each  two, 
and  they  were  all  comparing  them  to-night. 

64 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

I  can't  think  of  anything  I'd  rather  have; 
it's  such  a  respectable  relationship.  So, 
if  you  really  don't  object  —  When  I  went 
into  town  yesterday,  I  saw  the  sweetest  cap 
of^Cluny  lace  trimmed  with  lavender  rib- 
bon. I  am  going  to  make  you  a  present  of 
it  on  your  eighty-third  birthday. 

!!!!!!!!!!!! 

That 's  the  clock  in  the  chapel  tower 
striking  twelve.  I  believe  I  am  sleepy  after 
all. 

Good  night,  Granny. 

I  love  you  dearly. 

Judy. 


s 


65 


The  Ides  of  March. 

Dear  D.  L.  L., 

I  am  studying  Latin  prose  composition. 
I  have  been  studying  it.  I  shall  be  study- 
ing it.  I  shall  be  about  to  have  been  study- 
ing it.  My  reexamination  comes  the  7th 
hour  next  Tuesday,  and  I  am  going  to  pass 
or  BUST.  So  you  may  expect  to  hear 
from  me  next,  whole  and  happy  and  free 
from  conditions,  or  in  fragments. 

I  will  write  a  respectable  letter  when  it 's 
over.  To-night  I  have  a  pressing  engage- 
ment with  the  Ablative  Absolute. 

Yours  —  in  evident  haste, 

J.  A. 


66 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

March  26th. 

Mr.  D.  L.  L.  Smith. 

Sir:  You  never  answer  any  questions; 
you  never  show  the  slightest  interest  in  any- 
thing I  do.  You  are  probably  the  horrid- 
est  one  of  all  those  horrid  Trustees,  and 
the  reason  you  are  educating  me  is,  not  be- 
cause you  care  a  bit  about  me,  but  from  a 
sense  of  Duty. 

I  don't  know  a  single  thing  about  you. 
I  don't  even  know  your  name.  It  is  very 
uninspiring  writing  to  a  Thing.  I  have  n't 
a  doubt  but  that  you  throw  my  letters  into 
the  waste-basket  without  reading  them. 
Hereafter  I  shall  write  only  about  work. 

My  reexaminations  in  Latin  and  geome- 
try came  last  week.  I  passed  them  both 
and  am  now  free  from  conditions. 

Yours  truly, 

Jerusha  Abbott. 


67 


April  2d. 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 
I  am  a  BEAST. 

Please  forget  about  that  dreadful  letter 
I  sent  you  last  week  —  I  was  feeling  terri- 
bly lonely  and  miserable  and  sore-throaty 
the  night  I  wrote.  I  did  n't  know  it,  but 
I  was  just  coming  down  with  tonsilitis  and 
grippe  and  lots  of  things  mixed.  I 'm  in 
the  infirmary  now,  and  have  been  here  for 
six  days;  this  is  the  first  time  they  would 
let  me  sit  up  and  have  a  pen  and  paper. 
The  head  nurse  is  very  bossy.  But  I  've 
been  thinking  about  it  all  the  time  and  I 
shan't  get  well  until  you  forgive  me. 

Here  is  a  picture  of  the  way  I  look,  with 
a  bandage  tied  around  my  head  in  rabbit's 
ears. 

68 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


Does  n't  that  arouse  your  sympathy  ?  I 
am  having  sublingual  gland  swelling.  And 
I  've  been  studying  physiology  all  the  year 
without  ever  hearing  of  sublingual  glands. 
How  futile  a  thing  is  education! 

I  can't  write  any  more;  I  get  sort  of 
shaky  when  I  sit  up  too  long.  Please  for- 
give me  for  being  impertinent  and  ungrate- 
ful.   I  was  badly  brought  up. 

Yours  with  love, 

Judy  Abbott. 


69 


The  Infirmary. 

April  4th. 

Dearest  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

Yesterday  evening  just  toward  dark, 
when  I  was  sitting  up  in  bed  looking  out  at 
the  rain  and  feeling  awfully  bored  with  life 
in  a  great  institution,  the  nurse  appeared 
with  a  long  white  box  addressed  to  me, 
and  filled  with  the  loveliest  pink  rosebuds. 
And  much  nicer  still,  it  contained  a  card 
with  a  very  polite  message  written  in  a 
funny  little  uphill  back  hand  (but  one 
which  shows  a  great  deal  of  character). 
Thank  you,  Daddy,  a  thousand  times. 
Your  flowers  make  the  first  real,  true  pres- 
ent I  ever  received  in  my  life.  .  If  you  want 
to  know  what  a  baby  I  am,  I  lay  down  and 
cried  because  I  was  so  happy. 

Now  that  I  am  sure  you  read  my  letters, 
70 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


I  '11  make  them  much  more  interesting, 
so  they  '11  be  worth  keeping  in  a  safe 
with  red  tape  around  them  —  only  please 
take  out  that  dreadful  one  and  burn  it  up. 
I 'd  hate  to  think  that  you  ever  read  it  over, 

Thank  you  for  making  a  very  sick,  cross, 
miserable  Freshman  cheerful.  Probably 
you  have  lots  of  loving  family  and  friends, 
and  you  don't  know  what  it  feels  like  to  be 
alone.    But  I  do. 

Good-by  —  I  '11  promise  never  to  be  hor- 
rid again,  because  now  I  know  you  're  a 
real  person ;  also  I  '11  promise  never  to 
bother  you  with  any  more  questions. 

Do  you  still  hate  girls? 

Yours  forever, 

Judy. 


7i 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


8th  hour,  Monday. 
Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

I  hope  you  aren't  the  Trustee  who  sat 
on  the  toad?  It  went  off  —  I  was  told  — 
with  quite  a  pop,  so  probably  he  was  a  fat- 
ter Trustee. 

Do  you  remember  the  little  dugout  places 
with  gratings  over  them  by  the  laundry  win- 
dows in  the  John  Grier  Home?  Every 
spring  when  the  hoptoad  season  opened  we 
used  to  form  a  collection  of  toads  and  keep 
them  in  those  window  holes;  and  occasion- 
ally they  would  spill  over  into  the  laundry, 
causing  a  very  pleasurable  commotion  on 
wash  days.  We  were  severely  punished 
for  our  activities  in  this  direction,  but  in 
spite  of  all  discouragement  the  toads  would 
collect. 

And  one  day  —  well,  I  won't  bore  you 
with  particulars  —  but  somehow,   one  of 
the  fattest,  biggest,  juiciest  toads  got  into 
72 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


one  of  those  big  leather  arm  chairs  in  the 
Trustees'  room,  and  that  afternoon  at  the 
Trustees'  meeting —  But  I  dare  say  you 
were  there  and  recall  the  rest? 

Looking  back  dispassionately  after  a 
period  of  time,  I  will  say  that  punishment 
was  merited,  and  —  if  I  remember  rightly 
—  adequate. 

I  don't  know  why  I  am  in  such  a  reminis- 
cent mood  except  that  spring  and  the  reap- 
pearance of  toads  always  awakens  the  old 
acquisitive  instinct.  The  only  thing  that 
keeps  me  from  starting  a  collection  is  the 
fact  that  no  rule  exists  against  it. 


After  chapel,  Thursday. 

What  do  you  think  is  my  favorite  book? 
Just  now,  I  mean;  I  change  every  three 
days.      "Wuthering     Heights."  Emily 
Bronte  was  quite  young  when  she  wrote  it, 
73 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


and  had  never  been  outside  of  Ha  worth 
churchyard.  She  had  never  known  any 
men  in  her  life;  how  could  she  imagine  a 
man  like  Heathcliffe? 

I  couldn't  do  it,  and  I'm  quite  young 
and  never  outside  the  John  Grier  Asylum 
—  I  've  had  every  chance  in  the  world. 
Sometimes  a  dreadful  fear  comes  over  me 
that  I  'm  not  a  genius.  Will  you  be  aw- 
fully disappointed,  Daddy,  if  I  don't  turn 
out  to  be  a  great  author?  In  the  spring 
when  everything  is  so  beautiful  and  green 
and  budding,  I  feel  like  turning  my  back 
on  lessons,  and  running  away  to  play  with 
the  weather.  There  are  such  lots  of  ad- 
ventures out  in  the  fields!  It 's  much  more 
entertaining  to  live  books  than  to  write 
them. 

Ow  !  !  !  !  !  ! 

That  was  a  shriek  which  brought  Sallie 
and  Julia  and  (for  a  disgusted  moment) 
74 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

the  Senior  from  across  the  hall.  It  was 
caused  by  a  centipede  like  this: 


only  worse.  Just  as  I  had  finished  the  last 
sentence  and  was  thinking  what  to  say  next 

—  plump !  —  it  fell  off  the  ceiling  and 
landed  at  my  side.  I  tipped  two  cups  off 
the  tea  table  in  trying  to  get  away.  Sallie 
whacked  it  with  the  back  of  my  hair  brush 

—  which  I  shall  never  be  able  to  use  again 

—  and  killed  the  front  end,  but  the  rear 
fifty  feet  ran  under  the  bureau  and  escaped. 

This  dormitory,  owing  to  its  age  and 
ivy-covered  walls,  is  full  of  centipedes. 
They  are  dreadful  creatures.  I 'd  rather 
find  a  tiger  under  the  bed. 


75 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


Friday,  9.30  p.  m. 

Such  a  lot  of  troubles !  I  did  n't  hear 
the  rising  bell  this  morning,  then  I  broke 
my  shoe-string  while  I  was  hurrying  to 
dress  and  dropped  my  collar  button  down 
my  neck.  I  was  late  for  breakfast  and  also 
for  first-hour  recitation.  I  forgot  to  take 
any  blotting  paper  and  my  fountain  pen 
leaked.  In  trigonometry  the  Professor  and 
I  had  a  disagreement  touching  a  little  mat- 
ter of  logarithms.  On  looking  it  up,  I  find 
that  she  was  right.  We  had  mutton  stew 
and  pie-plant  for  lunch  —  hate  'em  both; 
they  taste  like  the  asylum.  Nothing  but 
bills  in  my  mail  (though  I  must  say  that 
I  never  do  get  anything  else ;  my  family  are 
not  the  kind  that  write).  In  English  class 
this  afternoon  we  had  an  unexpected  writ- 
ten lesson.    This  was  it: 

I  asked  no  other  thing, 
No  other  was  denied. 
I  offered  Being  for  it; 
The  mighty  merchant  smiled. 

76 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


Brazil?    He  twirled  a  button 
Without  a  glance  my  way: 
But,  madam,  is  there  nothing  else 
That  we  can  show  to-day? 

That  is  a  poem.  I  don't  know  who 
wrote  it  or  what  it  means.  It  was  simply 
printed  out  on  the  blackboard  when  we  ar- 
rived and  we  were  ordered  to  comment  upon 
it.  When  I  read  the  first  verse  I  thought 
I  had  an  idea  —  The  Mighty  Merchant  was 
a  divinity  who  distributes  blessings  in  re- 
turn for  virtuous  deeds  —  but  when  I  got 
to  the  second  verse  and  found  him  twirling 
a  button,  it  seemed  a  blasphemous  supposi- 
tion, and  I  hastily  changed  my  mind.  The 
rest  of  the  class  was  in  the  same  predica- 
ment; and  there  we  sat  for  three  quarters 
of  an  hour  with  blank  paper  and  equally 
blank  minds.  Getting  an  education  is  an 
awfully  wearing  process! 

But  this  did  n't  end  the  day.  There  's 
worse  to  come. 

It  rained  so  we  could  n't  play  golf,  but 
77 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


had  to  go  to  gymnasium  instead.  The  girl 
next  to  me  banged  my  elbow  with  an  In- 
dian club.  I  got  home  to  find  that  the  box 
with  my  new  blue  spring  dress  had  come, 
and  the  skirt  was  so  tight  that  I  could  n't  sit 
down.  Friday  is  sweeping  day,  and  the 
maid  had  mixed  all  the  papers  on  my  desk. 
We  had  tombstone  for  dessert  (milk  and 
gelatin  flavored  wTith  vanilla).  We  were 
kept  in  chapel  twenty  minutes  later  than 
usual  to  listen  to  a  speech  about  womanly 
women.  And  then  —  just  as  I  was  settling 
down  with  a  sigh  of  well-earned  relief  to 
"  The  Portrait  of  a  Lady,"  a  girl  named 
Ackerly,  a  dough-faced,  deadly,  unintermit- 
tently  stupid  girl,  who  sits  next  to  me  in 
Latin  because  her  name  begins  with  A  (I 
wish  Mrs.  Lippett  had  named  me  Zabriski), 
came  to  ask  if  Monday's  lesson  commenced 
at  paragraph  69  or  70,  and  stayed  ONE 
HOUR.    She  has  just  gone. 

Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  a  discouraging 
series  of  events?    It  isn't  the  big  troubles 
78 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


in  life  that  require  character.  Anybody 
can  rise  to  a  crisis  and  face  a  crushing 
tragedy  with  courage,  but  to  meet  the  petty 
hazards  of  the  day  with  a  laugh  —  I  really 
think  that  requires  spirit. 

It 's  the  kind  of  character  that  I  am  going 
to  develop.  I  am  going  to  pretend  that 
all  life  is  just  a  game  which  I  must  play 
as  skilfully  and  fairly  as  I  can.  If  I  lose, 
I  am  going  to  shrug  my  shoulders  and  laugh 
—  also  if  I  win. 

Anyway,  I  am  going  to  be  a  sport.  You 
will  never  hear  me  complain  again,  Daddy 
dear,  because  Julia  wears  silk  stockings  and 
centipedes  drop  off  the  wall. 

Yours  ever, 

Judy. 

Answer  soon. 


79 


May  27th. 

Daddy -Long-Legs,  Esq. 

Dear  Sir:  I  am  in  receipt  of  a  letter 
from  Mrs.  Lippett.  She  hopes  that  I  am 
doing  well  in  deportment  and  studies. 
Since  I  probably  have  no  place  to  go  this 
summer,  she  will  let  me  come  back  to  the 
asylum  and  work  for  my  board  until  col- 
lege opens. 

I  HATE  THE  JOHN  GRIER  HOME. 

I 'd  rather  die  than  go  back. 

Yours  most  truthfully, 

Jerusha  Abbott. 


80 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


Cher  Daddy-Jambes-Longes, 
Vous  etes  un  brick! 

Je  suis  tres  heureuse  about  the  farm, 
parsque  je  riai  jamais  been  on  a  farm  dans 
ma  vie  and  I  Jd  hate  to  retourner  chez  John 
Grier,  et  wash  dishes  tout  VetL  There 
would  be  danger  of  quelque  chose  affreuse 
happening,  parsque  j'ai  perdue  ma  humilite 
d'autre  fois  et  j'ai  peur  that  I  would  just 
break  out  quelque  jour  et  smash  every  cup 
and  saucer  dans  la  maison. 

Pardon  brievete  et  paper.  Je  ne  peux 
pas  send  des  mes  nouvelles  parseque  je  suis 
dans  French  class  et  j'ai  peur  que  Monsieur 
le  Prof  ess  eur  is  going  to  call  on  me  tout  de 
suite. 

He  did! 

Au  revoir, 
Je  vous  aime  beaucoup. 

Judy. 


6 


81 


May  30th. 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

Did  you  ever  see  this  campus?  (That  is 
merely  a  rhetorical  question.  Don't  let  it 
annoy  you.)  It  is  a  heavenly  spot  in  May. 
All  the  shrubs  are  in  blossom  and  the  trees 
are  the  loveliest  young  green  —  even  the 
old  pines  look  fresh  and  new.  The  grass 
is  dotted  with  yellow  dandelions  and  hun- 
dreds of  girls  in  blue  and  white  and  pink 
dresses.  Everybody  is  joyous  and  care- 
free, for  vacation 's  coming,  and  with  that 
to  look  forward  to,  examinations  don't 
count. 

Is  n't  that  a  happy  frame  of  mind  to  be 
in  ?  And  oh,  Daddy !  I 'm  the  happiest  of 
all !  Because  I 'm  not  in  the  asylum  any 
more ;  and  I 'm  not  anybody's  nurse-maid 
or  typewriter  or  bookkeeper  (I  should  have 
been,  you  know,  except  for  you). 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


I 'm  sorry  now  for  all  my  past  badnesses. 
I 'm  sorry  I  was  ever  impertinent  to  Mrs. 
Lippett. 

I 'm  sorry  I  ever  slapped  Freddie  Per- 
kins. 

I 'm  sorry  I  ever  filled  the  sugar  bowl 
with  salt. 

I 'm  sorry  I  ever  made  faces  behind  the 
Trustees'  backs. 

I 'm  going  to  be  good  and  sweet  and  kind 
to  everybody  because  I 'm  so  happy.  And 
this  summer  I 'm  going  to  write  and  write 
and  write  and  begin  to  be  a  great  author. 
Is  n't  that  an  exalted  stand  to  take  ?  Oh, 
I'm  developing  a  beautiful  character!  It 
droops  a  bit  under  cold  and  frost,  but  it 
does  grow  fast  when  the  sun  shines. 

That 's  the  way  with  everybody.  I  don't 
agree  with  the  theory  that  adversity  and 
sorrow  and  disappointment  develop  moral 
strength.  The  happy  people  are  the  ones 
who  are  bubbling  over  with  kindliness.  I 
have    no    faith    in   misanthropes.  (Fine 

83 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


word!  Just  learned  it.)  You  are  not  a 
misanthrope  are  you,  Daddy? 

I  started  to  tell  you  about  the  campus.  I 
wish  you  Jd  come  for  a  little  visit  and  let 
me  walk  you  about  and  say: 

"  That  is  the  library.  This  is  the  gas 
plant,  Daddy  dear.  The  Gothic  building 
on  your  left  is  the  gymnasium,  and  the 
Tudor  Romanesque  beside  it  is  the  new  in- 
firmary." 

Oh,  I 'm  fine  at  showing  people  about. 
I 've  done  it  all  my  life  at  the  asylum,  and 
I 've  been  doing  it  all  day  here.  I  have 
honestly. 

And  a  Man,  too ! 

That 's  a  great  experience.  I  never 
talked  to  a  man  before  (except  occasional 
Trustees,  and  they  don't  count).  Pardon, 
Daddy.  I  don't  mean  to  hurt  your  feelings 
when  I  abuse  Trustees.  I  don't  consider 
that  you  really  belong  among  them.  You 
just  tumbled  onto  the  Board  by  chance.  The 
Trustee,  as  such,  is  fat  and  pompous  and 

84 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

benevolent.  He  pats  one  on  the  head  and 
wears  a  gold  watch  chain. 


That  looks  like  a  June  bug,  but  is  meant 
to  be  a  portrait  of  any  Trustee  except  you. 

However  —  to  resume: 

I  have  been  walking  and  talking  and  hav- 
ing tea  with  a  man.  And  with  a  very  supe- 
rior man  —  with  Mr.  Jervis  Pendleton  of 
the  House  of  Julia;  her  uncle,  in  short  (in 

85 


DADDY-LOXG-LEGS 


long,  perhaps  I  ought  to  say ;  he  's  as  tall  as 
you).  Being  in  town  on  business,  he  de- 
cided to  run  out  to  the  college  and  call  on 
his  niece.  He 's  her  father's  youngest 
brother,  but  she  does  n't  know  him  very 
intimately.  It  seems  he  glanced  at  her 
when  she  was  a  baby,  decided  he  did  n't  like 
her,  and  has  never  noticed  her  since. 

Anyway,  there  he  was,  sitting  in  the  re- 
ception room  very  proper  with  his  hat  and 
stick  and  gloves  beside  him;  and  Julia  and 
Sallie  with  seventh-hour  recitations  that 
they  could  n't  cut.  So  Julia  dashed  into 
my  room  and  begged  me  to  walk  him  about 
the  campus  and  then  deliver  him  to  her 
when  the  seventh  hour  was  over.  I  said 
I  would,  obligingly  but  unenthusiastically, 
because  I  don't  care  much  for  Pendletons. 

But  he  turned  out  to  be  a  sweet  lamb. 
He 's  a  real  human  being  —  not  a  Pendle- 
ton at  all.  We  had  a  beautiful  time;  I've 
longed  for  an  uncle  ever  since.  Do  you 
86 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


mind  pretending  you're  my  uncle?  I  be- 
lieve they're  superior  to  grandmothers. 

Mr.  Pendleton  reminded  me  a  little  of 
you,  Daddy,  as  you  were  twenty  years  ago. 
You  see  I  know  you  intimately,  even  if  we 
have  n't  ever  met ! 

He 's  tall  and  thinnish  with  a  dark  face 
all  over  lines,  and  the  funniest  underneath 
smile  that  never  quite  comes  through  but 
just  wrinkles  up  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 
And  he  has  a  way  of  making  you  feel  right 
off  as  though  you 'd  known  him  a  long 
time.    He 's  very  companionable. 

We  walked  all  over  the  campus  from 
the  quadrangle  to  the  athletic  grounds ;  then 
he  said  he  felt  weak  and  must  have  some 
tea.  He  proposed  that  we  go  to  College 
Inn  —  it 's  just  off  the  campus  by  the  pine 
walk.  I  said  we  ought  to  go  back  for  Julia 
and  Sallie,  but  he  said  he  did  n't  like  to  have 
his  nieces  drink  too  much  tea ;  it  made  them 
nervous.    So  we  just  ran  away  and  had  tea 

87 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


and  muffins  and  marmalade  and  ice-cream 
and  cake  at  a  nice  little  table  out  on  the 
balcony.  The  inn  was  quite  conveniently- 
empty,  this  being  the  end  of  the  month  and 
allowances  low. 

We  had  the  jolliest  time !  But  he  had  to 
run  for  his  train  the  minute  he  got  back 
and  he  barely  saw  Julia  at  all.  She  was 
furious  with  me  for  taking  him  off;  it 
seems  he 's  an  unusually  rich  and  desirable 
uncle.  It  relieved  my  mind  to  find  he  was 
rich,  for  the  tea  and  things  cost  sixty  cents 
apiece. 

This  morning  (it's  Monday  now)  three 
boxes  of  chocolates  came  by  express  for 
Julia  and  Sallie  and  me.  What  do  you 
think  of  that?  To  be  getting  candy  from 
a  man! 

I  begin  to  feel  like  a  girl  instead  of  a 
foundling. 

I  wish  you 'd  come  and  take  tea  some 
day  and  let  me  see  if  I  like  you.  But 
88 


l 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


would  n't  it  be  dreadful  if  I  did  n't?  How- 
ever, I  know  I  should. 

Bien!    I  make  you  my  compliments. 
"  Jamais  je  ne  foublierai" 

Judy. 

P.  S.  I  looked  in  the  glass  this  morning 
and  found  a  perfectly  new  dimple  that 
I  'd  never  seen  before.  It 9s  very  curious. 
Where  do  you  suppose  it  came  from? 


89        ■  m 


June  9th. 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

Happy  day !  I  Jve  just  finished  my  last 
examination  —  Physiology.    And   now : 

Three  months  on  a  farm! 

I  don't  know  what  kind  of  a  thing  a  farm 
is.  I  've  never  been  on  one  in  my  life. 
I 've  never  even  looked  at  one  (except  from 
the  car  window),  but  I  know  I'm  going 
to  love  it,  and  I 'm  going  to  love  being 
free. 

I  am  not  used  even  yet  to  being  outside 
the  John  Grier  Home.  Whenever  I  think 
of  it  excited  little  thrills  chase  up  and  down 
my  back.  I  feel  as  though  I  must  run  fas- 
ter and  faster  and  keep  looking  over  my 
shoulder  to  make  sure  that  Mrs.  Lippett 
is  n't  after  me  with  her  arm  stretched  out 
to  grab  me  back. 

90 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


I  don't  have  to  mind  any  one  this  sum- 
mer, do  I? 

Your  nominal  authority  does  n't  annoy 
me  in  the  least ;  you  are  too  far  away  to  do 
any  harm.  Mrs.  Lippett  is  dead  forever, 
so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  and  the  Semples 
are  n't  expected  to  overlook  my  moral  wel- 
fare, are  they  ?  No,  I  am  sure  not.  I  am 
entirely  grown  up.  Hooray! 

I  leave  you  now  to  pack  a  trunk,  and 
three  boxes  of  teakettles  and  (fishes  and 
sofa  cushions  and  books. 

Yours  ever, 

Judy. 

P.  S.  Here  is  my  physiology  exam. 
Do  you  think  you  could  have  passed  ? 


91 


Lock  Willow  Farm, 

Saturday  night. 
Dearest  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

I  Ve  only  just  come  and  I 'm  not  un- 
packed, but  I  can't  wait  to  tell  you  how 
much  I  like  farms.  This  is  a  heavenly, 
heavenly,  heavenly  spot!  The  house  is 
square  like  this: 


And   old.    A  hundred  years   or  so.  It 
has  a  veranda  on  the  side  which  I  can't 
draw  and  a  sweet  porch  in  front.    The  pic- 
92 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


ture  really  doesn't  do  it  justice  —  those 
things  that  look  like  feather  dusters  are 
maple  trees,  and  the  prickly  ones  that  bor- 
der the  drive  are  murmuring  pines  and  hem- 
locks. It  stands  on  the  top  of  a  hill  and 
looks  way  off  over  miles  of  green  meadows 
to  another  line  of  hills. 


That  is  the  way  Connecticut  goes,  in  a 
series  of  Marcelle  waves;  and  Lock  Willow 
Farm  is  just  on  the  crest  of  one  wave. 
The  barns  used  to  be  across  the  road  where 
they  obstructed  the  view,  but  a  kind  flash  of 
lightning  came  from  heaven  and  burnt  them 
down. 

The  people  are  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Semple  and 
a  hired  girl  and  two  hired  men.  The  hired 
people  eat  in  the  kitchen,  and  the  Semples 
and  Judy  in  the  dining-room.  We  had 
ham  and  eggs  and  biscuits  and  honey  and 
jelly-cake  and  pie  and  pickles  and  cheese 
93 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


and  tea  for  supper  —  and  a  great  deal  of 
conversation.  I  have  never  been  so  enter- 
taining in  my  life;  everything  I  say  appears 
to  be  funny.  I  suppose  it  is,  because  I 've 
never  been  in  the  country  before,  and  my 
questions  are  backed  by  an  all-inclusive  ig- 
norance. 

The  room  marked  with  a  cross  is  not 
where  the  murder  was  committed,  but  the 
one  that  I  occupy.  It 's  big  and  square  and 
empty,  with  adorable  old-fashioned  furni- 
ture and  windows  that  have  to  be  propped 
up  on  sticks  and  green  shades  trimmed  with 
gold  that  fall  down  if  you  touch  them. 
And  a  big  square  mahogany  table  - —  I 'm 
going  to  spend  the  summer  with  my  elbows 
spread  out  on  it,  writing  a  novel. 

Oh,  Daddy,  I 'm  so  excited !  I  can't 
wait  till  daylight  to  explore.  It 's  8.30 
now,  and  I  am  about  to  blow  out  my  can- 
dle and  try  to  go  to  sleep.  We  rise  at  five. 
Did  you  ever  know  such  fun?  I  can't  be- 
lieve this  is  really  Judy.  You  and  the 
94 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

Good  Lord  give  me  more  than  I  deserve. 
I  must  be  a  very,  very,  very 'good  person  to 
pay.    I 'm  going  to  be.    You  '11  see. 

Good  night, 

Judy. 

P.  S.  You  should  hear  the  frogs  sing 
and  the  little  pigs  squeal  —  and  you  should 
see  the  new  moon !  I  saw  it  over  my  right 
shoulder. 


95 


Lock  Willow, 

July  1 2th. 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

How  did  your  secretary  come  to  know 
about  Lock  Willow?  (That  is  n't  a  rhetor- 
ical question.  I  am  awfully  curious  to 
know.)  For  listen  to  this:  Mr.  Jervis 
Pendleton  used  to  own  this  farm,  but  now 
he  has  given  it  to  Mrs.  Semple  who  was 
his  old  nurse.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  such 
a  funny  coincidence?  She  still  calls  him 
"  Master  Jervie  "  and  talks  about  what  a 
sweet  little  boy  he  used  to  be.  She  has  one 
of  his  baby  curls  put  away  in  a  box,  and 
it 's  red  —  or  at  least  reddish ! 

Since  she  discovered  that  I  know  him, 
I  have  risen  very  much  in  her  opinion. 
Knowing  a  member  of  the  Pendleton  fam- 
ily is  the  best  introduction  one  can  have  at 

96 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


Lock  Willow.  And  the  cream  of  the  whole 
family  is  Master  Jervie  —  I  am  pleased  to 
say  that  Julia  belongs  to  an  inferior  branch. 

The  farm  gets  more  and  more  entertain- 
ing. I  rode  on  a  hay  wagon  yesterday. 
We  have  three  big  pigs  and  nine  little  pig- 
lets, and  you  should  see  them  eat.  They 
are  pigs !  We  Ve  oceans  of  little  baby 
chickens  and  ducks  and  turkeys  and  guinea 
fowls.  You  must  be  mad  to  live  in  a  city 
when  you  might  live  on  a  farm. 

It  is  my  daily  business  to  hunt  the  eggs. 
I  fell  off  a  beam  in  the  barn  loft  yester- 
day, while  I  was  trying  to  crawl  over  to  a 
nest  that  the  black  hen  has  stolen.  And 
when  I  came  in  with  a  scratched  knee,  Mrs. 
Semple  bound  it  up  with  witch-hazel,  mur- 
muring all  the  time,  "  Dear !  Dear !  It 
seems  only  yesterday  that  Master  Jervie 
fell  off  that  very  same  beam  and  scratched 
this  very  same  knee." 

The  scenery  around  here  is  perfectly 
beautiful.  There 's  a  valley  and  a  river 
7  97 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


and  a  lot  of  wooded  hills,  and  way  in  the 
distance,  a  tall  blue  mountain  that  simply 
melts  in  your  mouth. 

We  churn  twice  a  week;  and  we  keep 
the  cream  in  the  spring  house  which  is  made 
of  stone  with  the  brook  running  under- 
neath. Some  of  the  farmers  around  here 
have  a  separator,  but  we  don't  care  for 
these  new-fashioned  ideas.  It  may  be  a 
little  harder  to  take  care  of  cream  raised  in 
pans,  but  it 's  enough  better  to  pay.  We 
have  six  calves ;  and  I  've  chosen  the  names 
for  all  of  them. 

1.  Sylvia,  because  she  was  born  in  the 
woods. 

2.  Lesbia,  after  the  Lesbia  in  Catullus. 

3.  Sallie. 

4.  Julia  —  a  spotted,  nondescript  animal. 

5.  Judy,  after  me. 

6.  Daddy-Long-Leg's.  You  don't  mind, 
do  you,  Daddy?  He's  pure  Jersey  and 
has  a  sweet  disposition.  He  looks  like  this 
—  you  can  see  how  appropriate  the  name  is. 

98 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


I  have  n't  had  time  yet  to  begin  my  im- 
mortal novel;  the  farm  keeps  me  too  busy. 

Yours  always, 

Judy. 

P.  S.    I  Ve  learned  to  make  doughnuts. 

P.  S.  (2)  If  you  are  thinking  of  raising 
chickens,  let  me  recommend  Buff  Orping- 
tons.   They  have  n't  any  pin  feathers. 

P.  S.  (3)  I  wish  I  could  send  you  a 
pat  of  the  nice,  fresh  butter  I  churned  yes- 
terday.   I 'm  a  fine  dairy-maid ! 

P.  S.  (4)  This  is  a  picture  of  Miss 
Jerusha  Abbott,  the  future  great  author, 
driving  home  the  cows. 


TOO 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


Sunday. 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

Is  n't  it  funny  ?  I  started  to  write  to 
you  yesterday  afternoon,  but  as  far  as  I  got 
was  the  heading,  "  Dear  Daddy-Long- 
Legs,"  and  then  I  remembered  I 'd  prom- 
ised to  pick  some  blackberries  for  supper, 
so  I  went  off  and  left  the  sheet  lying  on  the 
table,  and  when  I  came  back  to-day,  what 
do  you  think  I  found  sitting  in  the  middle 
of  the  page?  A  real  true  Daddy-Long- 
Legs! 


I  picked  him  up  very  gently  by  one  leg, 
and  dropped  him  out  of  the  window.  I 
101 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

would  n't  hurt  one  of  them  for  the  world. 
They  always  remind  me  of  you. 

We  hitched  up  the  spring  wagon  this 
morning  and  drove  to  the  Center  to  church. 
It  's  a  sweet  little  white  frame  church  with 
a  spire  and  three  Doric  columns  in  front 
(or  maybe  Ionic  —  I  always  get  them 
mixed). 

A  nice,  sleepy  sermon  with  everybody 
drowsily  waving  palm-leaf  fans,  and  the 
only  sound  aside  from  the  minister,  the 
buzzing  of  locusts  in  the  trees  outside.  I 
did  n't  wake  up  till  I  found  myself  on  my 
feet  singing  the  hymn,  and  then  I  was  aw- 
fully sorry  I  had  n't  listened  to  the  sermon ; 
I  should  like  to  know  more  of  the  psychol- 
ogy of  a  man  who  would  pick  out  such  a 
hymn.    This  was  it: 

Come,  leave  your  sports  and  earthly  toys 
And  join  me  in  celestial  joys. 
Or  else,  dear  friend,  a  long  farewell. 
I  leave  you  now  to  sink  to  hell. 


1 02 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


I  find  that  it  is  n't  safe  to  discuss  re- 
ligion with  the  Samples.  Their  God 
(whom  they  have  inherited  intact  from 
their  remote  Puritan  ancestors)  is  a  nar-* 
row,  irrational,  unjust,  mean,  revengeful, 
bigoted  Person.  Thank  heaven  I  don't  in- 
herit any  God  from  anybody!  I  am  free 
to  make  mine  up  as  I  wish  Him.  He 's 
kind  and  sympathetic  and  imaginative  and 
forgiving  and  understanding — and  He 
has  a  sense  of  humor. 

I  like  the  Semples  immensely ;  their  prac- 
tice is  so  superior  to  their  theory.  They 
are  better  than  their  own  God.  I  told  them 
so  —  and  they  are  horribly  troubled.  They 
think  I  am  blasphemous  —  and  I  think  they 
are!  We've  dropped  theology  from  our 
conversation. 

This  is  Sunday  afternoon. 

Amasai  (hired  man)  in  a  purple  tie  and 
some  bright  yellow  buckskin  gloves,  very 
red  and  shaved*  has  just  driven  off  with 
Carrie  (hired  girl)  in  a  big  hat  trimmed 
^  103 


i 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


with  red  roses  and  a  blue  muslin  dress  and 
her  hair  curled  as  tight  as  it  will  curl. 
Amasai  spent  all  the  morning  washing  the 
buggy;  and  Carrie  stayed  home  from 
church  ostensibly  to  cook  the  dinner,  but 
really  to  iron  the  muslin  dress. 

In  two  minutes  more  when  this  letter  is 
finished  I  am  going  to  settle  down  to  a  book 
which  I  found  in  the  attic.  It 's  entitled, 
"  On  the  Trail,"  and  sprawled  across  the 
front  page  in  a  funny  little-boy  hand: 

Jervis  Pendleton 
If  this  book  should  ever  roam, 
Box  its  ears  and  send  it  home. 

He  spent  the  summer  here  once  after  he 
had  been  ill,  when  he  was  about  eleven 
years  old;  and  he  left  "  On  the  Trail  "  be- 
hind. It  looks  well  read  —  the  marks  of 
his  grimy  little  hands  are  frequent!  Also 
in  a  corner  of  the  attic  there  is  a  water 
wheel  and  a  windmill  and  some  bows  and 
104 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


arrows.  Mrs.  Semple  talks  so  constantly 
about  him  that  I  begin  to  believe  he  really 
lives  —  not  a  grown  man  with  a  silk  hat 
.  and  walking  stick,  but  a  nice,  dirty,  tousle- 
headed  boy  who  clatters  up  the  stairs  with 
an  awful  racket,  and  leaves  the  screen  doors 
open,  and  is  always  asking  for  cookies. 
(And  getting  them,  too,  if  I  know  Mrs. 
Semple!)  He  seems  to  have  been  an  ad- 
venturous little  soul  —  and  brave  and  truth- 
ful. I 'm  sorry  to  think  he  is  a  Pendle- 
ton ;  he  was  meant  for  something  better. 

We're' going  to  begin  threshing  oats  to- 
morrow; a  steam  engine  is  coming  and 
three  extra  men. 

It  grieves  me  to  tell  you  that  Buttercup 
(the  spotted  cow  with  one  horn,  Mother 
of  Lesbia)  has  done  a  disgraceful  thing. 
She  got  into  the  orchard  Friday  evening 
and  ate  apples  under  the  trees,  and  ate  and 
ate  until  they  went  to  her  head  For  two 
days  she  has  been  perfectly  dead  drunk  J 
io5 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


That  is  the  truth  I  am  telling.    Did  you 
ever  hear  anything  so  scandalous? 
Sir, 

I  remain, 
Your  affectionate  orphan, 

Judy  Abbott. 

P.  S.  Indians  in  the  first  chapter  and  high- 
waymen in  the  second.  I  hold  my  breath. 
What  can  the  third  contain  ?  "  Red  Hawk 
leapt  twenty  feet  in  the  air  and  bit  the 
dust/'  That  is  the  subject  of  the  frontis- 
piece.   Are  n't  Judy  and  Jervie  having  fun  ? 


106 


September  1 5th. 

Dear  Daddy, 

I  was  weighed  yesterday  on  the  flour 
scales  in  the  general  store  at  the  Corners. 
I  Ve  gained  nine  pounds !  Let  me  recom- 
mend Lock  Willow  as  a  health  resort. 


Yours  ever, 

Judy. 


September  25th. 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

Behold  me  —  a  Sophomore!  I  came  up 
last  Friday,  sorry  to  leave  Lock  Willow, 
but  glad  to  see  the  campus  again.  It  is 
a  pleasant  sensation  to  come  back  to  some- 
thing familiar.  I  am  beginning  to  feel  at 
home  in  college,  and  in  command  of  the 
situation;  I  am  beginning,  in  fact,  to  feel 
at  home  in  the  world  —  as  though  I  really 
belonged  in  it  and  had  not  just  crept  in  on 
sufferance. 

I  don't  suppose  you  understand  in  the 
least  what  I  am  trying  to  say.  A  person 
important  enough  to  be  a  Trustee  can't  ap- 
preciate the  feelings  of  a  person  unimpor- 
tant enough  to  be  a  foundling. 

And  now,  Daddy,  listen  to  this.  Whom 
do  you  think  I  am  rooming  with?  Sallie 
108 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


McBride  and  Julia  Rutledge  Pendleton. 
It 's  the  truth.  We  have  a  study  and  three 
little  bedrooms  —  voila! 


Sallie  and  I  decided  last  spring  that  we 
should  like  to  room  together,  and  Julia 
made  up  her  mind  to  stay  with  Sallie  — 
why,  I  can't  imagine,  for  they  are  not  a  bit 
alike;  but  the  Pendletons  are  naturally  con- 
servative and  inimical  (fine  word!)  to 
change.  Anyway,  here  we  are.  Think  of 
Jerusha  Abbott,  late  of  the  John  Grier 
Home  for  Orphans,  rooming  with  a  Pendle- 
ton.   This  is  a  democratic  country. 

Sallie  is  running  for  class  president,  and 
unless  all  signs  fail,  she  is  going  to  be 
elected.  Such  an  atmosphere  of  intrigue  — 
you  should  see  what  politicians  we  are! 


109 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


Oh,  I  tell  you,  Daddy,  when  we  women  get 
our  rights,  you  men  will  have  to  look  alive 
in  order  to  keep  yours.  Election  comes 
next  Saturday,  and  we  're  going  to  have  a 
torchlight  procession  in  the  evening,  no 
matter  who  wins. 

I  am  beginning  chemistry,  a  most  un- 
usual study.  I  Ve  never  seen  anything  like 
it  before.  Molecules  and  Atoms  are  the 
material  employed,  but  I  '11  be  in  a  position 
to  discuss  them  more  definitely  next  month. 

I  am  also  taking  argumentation  and  logic. 

Also  history  of  the  whole  world. 

Also  plays  of  William  Shakespeare. 

Also  French. 

If  this  keeps  up  many  years  longer,  I 
shall  become  quite  intelligent. 

I  should  rather  have  elected  economics 
than  French,  but  I  did  n't  dare,  because  I 
was  afraid  that  unless  I  reelected  French, 
the  Professor  would  not  let  me  pass  —  as 
it  was,  I  just  managed  to  squeeze  through 
the  June  examination.  But  I  will  say  that 
no 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


my  high-school  preparation  was  not  very 
adequate. 

There  ?s  one  girl  in  the  cl-ass  who  chatters 
away'  in  French  as  fast  as  she  does  in 
English.  She  went  abroad  with  her  parents 
when  she  was  a  child,  and  spent  three  years 
in  a  convent  school.  You  can  imagine  how 
bright  she  is  compared  with  the  rest  of  us 
—  irregular  verbs  are  mere  playthings.  I 
wish  my  parents  had  chucked  me  into  a 
French  convent  when  I  was  little  instead 
of  a  foundling  asylum.  Oh,  no,  I  don't 
either !  Because  then  maybe  I  should  never 
have  known  yoy.  -  I 'd  rather  know  you 
than  French. 

Good-by,  Daddy.  I  must  call  on  Har- 
riet Martin  now,  and,  having  discussed  the 
chemical  situation,  casually  drop  a  few 
thoughts  on  the  subject  of  our  next  presi- 
dent. 

Yours  in  politics, 

J.  Abbott. 


hi 


October  17th. 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

Supposing  the  swimming  tank  in  the 
gymnasium  were  filled  full  of  lemon  jelly, 
could  a  person  trying  to  swim  manage  to 
keep  on  top  or  would  he  sink  ? 

We  were  having  lemon  jelly  for  dessert 
when  the  question  came  up.  We  discussed 
it  heatedly  for  half  an  hour  and  it 's  still 
unsettled.  Sallie  thinks  that  she  could 
swim  in  it,  but  I  am  perfectly  sure  that  the 
best  swimmer  in  the  world  would  sink. 
Wouldn't  it  be  funny  to  be  drowned  in 
lemon  jelly  ? 

Two  other  problems  are  engaging  the 
attention  of  our  table. 

1st.  What  shape  are  the  rooms  in  an 
octagon  house?  Some  of  the  girls  insist 
112 


I 

"  Stone  Gate/9 
Worcester,  Mass., 

December  31st. 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

I  meant  to  write  to  you  before  and  thank 
you  for  your  Christmas  check,  but  life  in 
the  McBride  household  is  very  absorbing, 
and  I  don't  seem  able  to  find  two  consecu- 
tive minutes  to  spend  at  a  desk. 

I  bought  a  new  gown  —  one  that  I 
did  n't  need,  but  just  wanted.  My  Christ- 
mas present  this  year  is  from  Daddy-Long- 
Legs;  my  family  just  sent  love. 

I  Ve  been  having  the  most  beautiful  vaca- 
tion visiting  Sallie.  She  lives  in  a  big  old- 
fashioned  brick  house  with  white  trimmings 
set  back  from  the  street  —  exactly  the  kind 
of  house  that  I  used  to  look  at  so  curiously 
when  I  was  in  the  John  Grier  Home,  and 
ii7 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


wonder  what  it  could  be  like  inside.  I 
never  expected  to  see  with  my  own  eyes  — 
but  here  I  am!  Everything  is  so  com- 
fortable and  restful  and  homelike;  I  walk 
from  room  to  room  and  drink  in  the  fur- 
nishings. 

It  is  the  most  perfect  house  for  children 
to  be  brought  up  in;  with  shadowy  nooks 
for  hide  and  seek,  and  open  fireplaces  for 
pop-corn,  and  an  attic  to  romp  in  on  rainy 
days,  and  slippery  banisters  with  a  com- 
fortable flat  knob  at  the  bottom,  and  a  great 
big  sunny  kitchen,  and  a  nice  fat,  sunny 
cook  who  has  lived  in  the  family  thirteen 
years  and  always  saves  out  a  piece  of 
dough  for  the  children  to  bake.  Just  the 
sight  of  such  a  house  makes  you  want  to 
be  a  child  all  over  again. 

And  as  for  families!  I  never  dreamed 
they  could  be  so  nice.  Sallie  has  a  father 
and  mother  and  grandmother,  and  the 
sweetest  three-year-old  baby  sister  all  over 
curls,  and  a  medium-sized  brother  who  al- 
118 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


ways  forgets  to  wipe  his  feet,  and  a  big, 
good-looking  brother  named  Jimmie,  who 
is  a  junior  at  Princeton. 

We  have  the  j oiliest  times  at  the  table 
—  everybody  laughs  and  jokes  and  talks 
at  once,  and  we  don't  have  to  say  grace  be- 
forehand. It's  a  relief  not  having  to 
thank  Somebody  for  every  mouthful  you 
eat.  (I  dare  say  I'm  blasphemous;  but 
you 'd  be,  too,  if  you 'd  offered  as  much 
obligatory  thanks  as  I  have.) 

Such  a  lot  of  things  we 've  done  —  I 
can't  begin  to  tell  you  about  them.  Mr. 
McBride  owns  a  factory,  and  Christmas  eve 
he  had  a  tree  for  the  employees'  children. 
It  was  in  the  long  packing-room  which  was 
decorated  with  evergreens  and  holly.  Jim- , 
mie  McBride  was  dressed  as  Santa  Claus, 
and  Sallie  and  I  helped  him  distribute  the 
presents. 

Dear  me,  Daddy,  but  it  was  a  funny  sen- 
sation!   I  felt  as  benevolent  as  a  Trustee 
of  the  John  Grier  Home.    I  kissed  one 
119 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


sweet,  sticky  little  boy  —  but  I  don't  think 
I  patted  any  of  them  on  the  head! 

And  two  days  after  Christmas,  they  gave 
a  dance  at  their  own  house  for  ME. 

It  was  the  first  really  true  ball  I  ever  at- 
tended —  college  does  n't  count  where  we 
dance  with  girls.  I  had  a  new  white  even- 
ing gown  (your  Christmas  present  — 
many  thanks)  and  long  white  gloves  and 
white  satin  slippers.  The  only  drawback 
to  my  perfect,  utter,  absolute  happiness  was 
the  fact  that  Mrs.  Lippett  could  n't  see  me 
leading  the  cotillion  with  Jimmie  McBride. 
Tell  her  about  it,  please,  the  next  time  you 
visit  the  J.  G.  H. 

Yours  ever, 
Judy  Abbott. 

P.  S.  Would  you  be  terribly  displeased, 
Daddy,  if  I  did  n't  turn  out  to  be  a  Great 
Author  after  all,  but  just  a  Plain  Girl? 


1 20 


6.30,  Saturday. 

Dear  Daddy, 

We  started  to  walk  to  town  to-day,  but 
mercy!  how  it  poured.  I  like  winter  to  be 
winter  with  snow  instead  of  rain. 

Julia's  desirable  uncle  called  again  this 
afternoon  —  and  brought  a  five-pound  box 
of  chocolates.  There  are  advantages  you 
see  about  rooming  with  Julia. 

Our  innocent  prattle  appeared  to  amuse 
him  and  he  waited  over  a  train  in  order  to 
take  tea  in  the  study.  And  an  awful  lot 
of  trouble  we  had  getting  permission.  It 's 
hard  enough  entertaining  fathers  and  grand- 
fathers, but  uncles  are  a  step  worse ;  and  as 
for  brothers  and  cousins,  they  are  next  to 
impossible.  Julia  had  to  swear  that  he  was 
her  uncle  before  a  notary  public  and  then 
have  the  county  clerk's  certificate  attached. 
121 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


(Don't  I  know  a  lot  of  law?)  And  even 
then  I  doubt  if  we  could  have  had  our  tea 
if  the  Dean  had  chanced  to  see  how  young- 
ish and  good-looking  Uncle  Jervis  is. 

Anyway,  we  had  it,  with  brown  bread 
Swiss  cheese  sandwiches.  He  helped  make 
them  and  then  ate  four.  I  told  him  that 
I  had  spent  last  summer  at  Lock  Willow, 
and  we  had  a  beautiful  gossipy  time  about 
the  Semples,  and  the  horses  and  cows  and 
chickens.  All  the  horses  that  he  used  to 
know  are  dead,  except  Grover,  who  was  a 
baby  colt  at  the  time  of  his  last  visit  — 
and  poor  Grove  now  is  so  old  he  can  just 
limp  about  the  pasture. 

He  asked  if  they  still  kept  doughnuts  in 
a  yellow  crock  with  a  blue  plate  over  it  on 
the  bottom  shelf  of  the  pantry — and  they 
do !  He  wanted  to  know  if  there  was  still 
a  woodchuck's  hole  under  the  pile  of  rocks 
in  the  night  pasture  —  and  there  is! 
Amasai  caught  a  big,  fat,  gray  one  there 

122 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


this  summer,  the  twenty-fifth  great-grand- 
son of  the  one  Master  Jervie  caught  when 
he  was  a  little  boy. 

I  called  him  "  Master  Jervie  "  to  his  face, 
but  he  did  n't  appear  to  be  insulted.  Julia 
says  that  she  has  never  seen  him  so  amiable ; 
he 's  usually  pretty  unapproachable.  But 
Julia  hasn't  a  bit  of  tact;  and  men,  I  find, 
require  a  great  deal.  They  purr  if  you 
rub  them  the  right  way  and  spit  if  you 
don't.  (That  isn't  a  very  elegant  meta- 
phor.   I  mean  it  figuratively. ) 

We  're  reading  Marie  Bashkirtseff 's  jour- 
nal. Isn't  it  amazing?  Listen  to  this: 
"  Last  night  I  was  seized  by  a  fit  of  despair 
that  found  utterance  in  moans,  and  that 
finally  drove  me  to  throw  the  dining-room 
clock  into  the  sea." 

It  makes  me  almost  hope  I 'm  not  a 
genius;  they  must  be  very  wearing  to  have 
about  —  and  awfully  destructive  to  the  fur- 
niture. 

123 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


Mercy !  how 
it  keeps  pouring. 
We  shall  have  to 


124 


Jan.  20th. 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

Did  you  ever  have  a  sweet  baby  girl  who 
was  stolen  from  the  cradle  in  infancy? 

Maybe  I  am  she!  If  we  were  in  a  novel, 
that  would  be  the  denouement,  would  n't  it? 

It 's  really  awfully  queer  not  to  know 
what  one  is  —  sort  of  exciting  and  romantic. 
There  are  such  a  lot  of  possibilities.  Maybe 
I'm  not  American;  lots  of  people  aren't. 
I  may  be  straight  descended  from  the 
ancient  Romans,  or  I  may  be  a  Viking's 
daughter,  or  I  may  be  the  child  of  a  Rus- 
sian exile  and  belong  by  rights  in  a  Siberian 
prison,  or  maybe  I 'm  a  Gipsy  —  I  think 
perhaps  I  am.  I  have  a  very  wandering 
spirit,  though  I  have  n't  as  yet  had  much 
chance  to  develop  it. 

Do  you  know  about  that  one  scandalous 
125 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


blot  in  my  career  —  the  time  I  ran  away 
from  the  asylum  because  they  punished  me 
for  stealing  cookies  ?  It 's  down  in  the 
books  free  for  any  Trustee  to  read.  But 
really,  Daddy,  what  could  you  expect? 
When  you  put  a  hungry  little  nine-year  girl 
in  the  pantry  scouring  knives,  with  the 
cookie  jar  at  her  elbow,  and  go  off  and  leave 
her  alone;  and  then  suddenly  pop  in  again, 
would  n't  you  expect  to  find  her  a  bit 
crumby?  And  then  wThen  you  jerk  her  by 
the  elbow  and  box  her  ears,  and  make  her 
leave  the  table  when  the  pudding  comes,  and 
tell  all  the  other  children  that  it 's  because 
she 's  a  thief,  would  n't  you  expect  her  to 
run  away? 

I  only  ran  four  miles.  They  caught  me 
and  brought  me  back;  and  every  day  for  a 
week  I  was  tied,  like  a  naughty  puppy,  to 
a  stake  in  the  back  yard  while  the  other 
children  were  out  at  recess. 

Oh,  dear !  There 's  the  chapel  bell,  and 
after  chapel  I  have  a  committee  meeting. 
126 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


I 'm  sorry  because  I  meant  to  write  you  a 
very  entertaining  letter  this  time. 

Auf  wiedersehen 

Cher  Daddy 

Pax  tibi! 
Judy. 

P.  S.  There 's  one  thing  I  'm  perfectly 
sure  of.    I 'm  not  a  Chinaman. 


127 


February  4th. 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

Jimmie  McBride  has  sent  me  a  Princeton 
banner  as  big  as  one  end  of  the  room ;  I  am 
very  grateful  to  him  for  remembering  me, 
but  I  don't  know  what  on  earth  to  do  with 
it.  Sallie  and  Julia  won't  let  me  hang  it 
up;  our  room  this  year  is  furnished  in  red, 
and  you  can  imagine  what  an  effect  we 'd 
have  if  I  added  orange  and  black.  But 
it 's  such  nice,  warm,  thick  felt,  I  hate  to 
waste  it.  Would  it  be  very  improper  to 
have  it  made  into  a  bath  robe  ?  My  old  one 
shrank  when  it  was  washed. 

I  Ve  entirely  omitted  of  late  telling  you 
what  I  am  learning,  but  though  you  might 
not  imagine  it  from  my  letters,  my  time  is 
exclusively  occupied  with  study.  It 's  a 
128 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


U's  The  virtu  b»v*l 


liij 


very  bewildering  matter  to  get  educated  in 
five  branches  at  once. 

"  The  test  of  true  scholarship,"  says 
Chemistry  Professor,  "  is  a  painstaking 
passion  for  detail." 

"  Be  careful  not  to  keep  your  eyes  glued 
to  detail/'  says  History  Professor.  "  Stand 
far  enough  away  to  get  a  perspective  on  the 
whole." 

You  can  see  with  what  nicety  we  have  to 
9  129 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


trim  our  sails  between  chemistry  and  his- 
tory. I  like  the  historical  method  best. 
\  If  I  say  that  William  the  Conqueror  came 
over  in  1492,  and  Columbus  discovered 
America  in  1100  or  1066  or  whenever  it 
was,  that 's  a  mere  detail  that  the  Professor 
overlooks.  It  gives  a  feeling  of  security 
and  restfulness  to  the  history  recitation, 
that  is  entirely  lacking  in  chemistry. 

Sixth-hour  bell  —  I  must  go  to  the 
laboratory  and  look  into  a  little  matter  of 
acids  and  salts  and  alkalis.  I 've  burned  a 
hole  as  big  as  a  plate  in  the  front  of  my 
chemistry  apron,  with  hydrochloric  acid. 
If  the  theory  worked,  I  ought  to  be  able  to 
neutralize  that  hole  with  good  strong  am- 
monia, ought  n't  I  ? 

Examinations  next  week,  but  who 's 
afraid? 

Yours  ever, 

Judy. 


130 


March  5th. 


Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

There  is  a  March  wind  blowing,  and  the 
sky  is  filled  with  heavy,  black  moving 
clouds.  The  crows  in  the  pine  trees  are 
making  such  a  clamor !  It 's  an  intoxica- 
ting, exhilarating,  calling  noise.  You  want 
to  close  your  books  and  be  off  over  the  hills 
to  race  with  the  wind. 


We  had  a  paper  chase  last  Saturday  over 
five  miles  of  squashy  'cross  country.  The 
fox  (composed  of  three  girls  and  a  bushel 
or  so  of  confetti)  started  half  an  hour 
before  the  twenty-seven  hunters.  I  was  one 
of  the  twenty-seven;  eight  dropped  by  the 
wayside ;  we  ended  nineteen.  The  trail  led 
over  a  hill,  through  a  cornfield,  and  into 
a  swamp  where  we  had  to  leap  lightly  from 
hummock  to  hummock.    Of  course  half  of 


131 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


us  went  in  ankle  deep.  We  kept  losing  the 
trail,  and  wasted  twenty-five  minutes  over 
that  swamp.  Then  up  a  hill  through  some 
woods  and  in  at  a  barn  window!  The 
barn  doors  were  all  locked  and  the  window 
was  up  high  and  pretty  small.  I  don't  call 
that  fair,  do  you  ? 

But  we  did  n't  go  through ;  we  circum- 
navigated the  barn  and  picked  up  the  trail 
where  it  issued  by  way  of  a  low  shed  roof 
onto  the  top  of  a  fence.  The  fox  thought 
he  had  us  there,  but  we  fooled  him.  Then 
straight  away  over  two  miles  of  rolling 
meadow,  and  awfully  hard  to  follow,  for 
the  confetti  was  getting  sparse.  The  rule 
is  that  it  must  be  at  the  most  six  feet  apart, 
but  they  were  the  longest  six  feet  I  ever 
saw.  Finally,  after  two  hours  of  steady 
trotting,  we  tracked  Monsieur  Fox  into  the 
kitchen  of  Crystal  Spring  (that 's  a  farm 
where  the  girls  go  in  bob  sleighs  and  hay 
wagons  for  chicken  and  waffle  suppers)  and 
we  found  the  three  foxes  placidly  eating 
132 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


milk  and  honey  and  biscuits.  They  had  n't 
thought  we  would  get  that  far;  they  were 
expecting  us  to  stick  in  the  barn  window. 

Both  sides  insist  that  they  won.  I  think 
we  did,  don't  you?  Because  we  caught 
them  before  they  got  back  to  the  campus. 
Anyway,  all  nineteen  of  us  settled  like 
locusts  over  the  furniture  and  clamored  for 
honey.  There  was  n't  enough  to  go  round, 
but  Mrs.  Crystal  Spring  (that's  our  pet 
name  for  her;  she's  by  rights  a  Johnson) 
brought  up  a  jar  of  strawberry  jam  and  a 
can  of  maple  syrup  —  just  made  last  week 
—  and  three  loaves  of  brown  bread. 

We  did  n't  get  back  to  college  till  half- 
past  six  —  half  an  hour  late  for  dinner  — 
and  we  went  straight  in  without  dressing, 
and  with  perfectly  unimpaired  appetites! 
Then  we  all  cut  evening  chapel,  the  state  of 
our  boots  being  enough  of  an  excuse. 

I  never  told  you  about  examinations.  I 
passed  everything  with  the  utmost  ease  — 
I  know  the  secret  now,  and  am  never  going 
133 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


to  flunk  again.  I  shan't  be  able  to  gradu- 
ate with  honors  though,  because  of  that 
beastly  Latin  prose  and  geometry  Freshman 
year.  But  I  don't  care.  Wot 's  the  hodds 
so  long  as  you're  'appy?  (That's  a  quo- 
tation. I 've  been  reading  the  English 
classics. ) 

Speaking  of  classics,  have  you  ever  read 
"Hamlet"?  If  you  haven't,  do  it  right* 
off.  It 's  perfectly  corking.  I 've  been 
hearing  about  Shakespeare  all  my  life,  but 
I  had  no  idea  he  really  wrote  so  well;  I 
always  suspected  him  of  going  largely  on 
his  reputation. 

I  have  a  beautiful  play  that  I  invented  a 
long  time  ago  when  I  first  learned  to  read. 
I  put  myself  to  sleep  every  night  by  pre- 
tending I  'm  the  person  (the  most  important 
person)  in  the  book  I 'm  reading  at  the 
moment. 

At  present  I 'm  Ophelia  —  and  such  a 
sensible  Ophelia!    I  keep  Hamlet  amused 
all  the  time,  and  pet  him  and  scold  him  and 
134 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

make  him  wrap  up  his  throat  when  he  has 
a  cold.  I  've  entirely  cured  him  of  being 
melancholy.  The  King  and  Queen  are  both 
dead  —  an  accident  at  sea ;  no  funeral 
necessary  —  so  Hamlet  and  I  are  ruling  in 
Denmark  without  any  bother.  We  have 
the  kingdom  working  beautifully.  He 
takes  care  of  the  governing,  and  I  look  after 
the  charities.  I  have  just  founded  some 
first-class  orphan  asylums.  If  you  or  any 
of  the  other  Trustees  would  like  to  visit 
them,  I  shall  be  pleased  to  show  you 
through.  I  think  you  might  find  a  great 
many  helpful  suggestions. 

I  remain,  sir, 
Yours  most  graciously, 

Ophelia, 
Queen  of  Denmark. 


135 


March  24th 
maybe  the  25th. 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

I  don't  believe  I  can  be  going  to  Heaven 
—  I  am  getting  such  a  lot  of  good  things 
here ;  it  would  n't  be  fair  to  get  them  here- 
after, too.    Listen  to  what  has  happened. 

Jerusha  Abbott  has  won  the  short-story 
contest  (a  twenty-five  dollar  prize)  that  the 
Monthly  holds  every  year.  And  she  a 
Sophomore!  The  contestants  are  mostly 
Seniors.  When  I  saw  my  name  posted,  I 
could  n't  quite  believe  it  was  true.  Maybe 
I  am  going  to  be  an  author  after  all.  I 
wish  Mrs.  Lippett  had  n't  given  me  such  a 
silly  name  —  it  sounds  like  an  author-ess,  ^ 
does  n't  it  ? 

Also  I  have  been  chosen  for  the  spring 
136 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


dramatics  — "  As   You  Like  It "   out  of 
doors.    I  am  going  to  be  Celia,  own  cousin 
I'to  Rosalind. 

And  lastly:  Julia  and  Sallie  and  I  are 
going  to  New  York  next  Friday  to  do  some 
spring  shopping  and  stay  all  night  and  go 
to  the  theater  the  next  day  with  "  Master 
Jervie."  He  invited  us.  Julia  is  going  to 
stay  at  home  with  her  family,  but  Sallie 
and  I  are  going  to  stop  at  the  Martha  Wash- 
ington Hotel.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  any- 
thing so  exciting?  I  've  never  been  in  a 
hotel  in  my  life,  nor  in  a  theater;  except 
once  when  the  Catholic  Church  had  a  fes- 
tival and  invited  the  orphans,  but  that 
was  n't  a  real  play  and  it  does  n't  count. 

And  what  do  you  think  we  're  going  to 
see?  "Hamlet."  Think  of  that!  We 
studied  it  for  four  weeks  in  Shakespeare 
class  and  I  know  it  by  heart. 

I  am  so  excited  over  all  these  prospects 
that  I  can  scarcely  sleep. 

137 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 
Good-by,  Daddy. 

This  is  a  very  entertaining  world. 

Yours  ever, 

Judy. 

P.  S.  I 've  just  looked  at  the  calendar. 
It 's  the  28th. 

Another  postscript. 

I  saw  a  street  car  conductor  to-day  with 
one  brown  eye  and  one  blue.  Would  n't  he 
make  a  nice  villain  for  a  detective  story? 


138 


April  7th. 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

Mercy!  Is  n't  New  York  big?  Worces- 
ter is  nothing  to  it.  Do  you  mean  to  tell 
me  that  you  actually  live  in  all  that  confu- 
sion? I  don't  believe  that  I  shall  recover 
for  months  from  the  bewildering  effect  of 
two  days  of  it.  I  can't  begin  to  tell  you 
all  the  amazing  things  I  Ve  seen ;  I  suppose 
you  know,  though,  since  you  live  there, 
yourself. 

But  are  n't  the  streets  entertaining  ?  And 
the  people?  And  the  shops?  I  never  saw 
such  lovely  things  as  there  are  in  the  win- 
dows. It  makes  you  want  to  devote  your 
life  to  wearing  clothes. 

Sallie  and  Julia  and  I  went  shopping  to- 
gether Saturday  morning.  Julia  went  into 
the  very  most  gorgeous  place  I  ever  saw, 
white  and  gold  walls  and  blue  carpets  and 
139 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS. 


blue  silk  curtains  and  gilt  chairs.  A  per- 
fectly beautiful  lady  with  yellow  hair  and 
a  long  black  silk  trailing  gown  came  to  meet 
us  with  a  welcoming  smile.  I  thought  we 
were  paying  a  social  call,  and  started  to 
shake  hands,  but  it  seems  we  were  only  buy- 
ing hats  —  at  least  Julia  was.  She  sat 
down  in  front  of  a  mirror  and  tried  on  a 
dozen,  each  lovelier  than  the  last,  and 
bought  the  two  loveliest  of  all. 

I  can't  imagine  any  joy  in  life  greater 
than  sitting  down  in  front  of  a  mirror  and 
buying  any  hat  you  choose  without  having 
first  to  consider  the  price !  There 's  no 
doubt  about  it,  Daddy;  New  York  would 
rapidly  undermine  this  fine,  stoical  charac- 
ter which  the  John  Grier  Home  so  patiently 
built  up. 

And  after  we 'd  finished  our  shopping, 
we  met  Master  Jervie  at  Sherry's.  I  sup- 
pose you 've  been  in  Sherry's  ?  Picture 
that,  then  picture  the  dining-room  of  the 
John  Grier  Home  with  its  oilcloth-covered 
140 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


tables,  and  white  crockery  that  you  can't 
break,  and  wooden-handled  knives  and 
forks;  and  fancy  the  way  I  felt! 

I  ate  my  fish  with  the  wrong  fork,  but 
the  waiter  very  kindly  gave  me  another  so 
that  nobody  noticed. 

And  after  luncheon  we  went  to  the  thea- 
ter —  it  was  dazzling,  marvelous,  unbelieva- 
ble —  I  dream  about  it  every  night. 

Isn't  Shakespeare  wonderful? 

"  Hamlet "  is  so  much  better  on  the  stage 
than  when  we  analyze  it  in  class;  I  ap- 
preciated it  before,  but  now,  dear  me ! 

I  think,  if  you  don't  mind,  that  I 'd  rather 
be  an  actress  than  a  writer.  Would  n't  you 
like  me  to  leave  college  and  go  into  a  dra- 
matic school  ?  And  then  I  '11  send  you  a 
box  for  all  my  performances,  and  smile  at 
you  across  the  footlights.  Only  wear  a  red 
rose  in  your  buttonhole,  please,  so  I  '11 
surely  smile  at  the  right  man.  It  would  be 
an  awfully  embarrassing  mistake  if  I  picked 
out  the  wrong  one. 

141 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


We  came  back  Saturday  night  and  had 
our  dinner  in  the  train,  at  little  tables  with 
pink  lamps  and  negro  waiters.  I  never 
heard  of  meals  being  served  in  trains  before, 
and  I  inadvertently  said  so. 

"  Where  on  earth  were  you  brought  up?  " 
said  Julia  to  me. 

"  In  a  village,"  said  I,  meekly  to  Julia. 

"But  didn't  you  ever  travel?"  said  she 
to  me. 

"  Not  till  I  came  to  college,  and  then  it 
was  only  a  hundred  and  sixty  miles  and  we 
did  n't  eat,"  said  I  to  her. 

She 's  getting  quite  interested  in  me,  be- 
cause I  say  such  funny  things.  I  try  hard 
not  to,  but  they  do  pop  out  when  I  'm  sur- 
prised—  and  I'm  surprised  most  of  the 
time.  It 's  a  dizzying  experience,  Daddy, 
to  pass  eighteen  years  in  the  John  Grier 
Home,  and  then  suddenly  to  be  plunged  into 
the  WORLD. 

But  I 'm  getting  acclimated.  I  don't 
make  such  awful  mistakes  as  I  did;  and  I 
142 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


don't  feel  uncomfortable  any  more  with  the 
other  girls.  I  used  to  squirm  whenever 
people  looked  at  me.  I  felt  as  though  they 
saw  right  through  my  sham  new  clothes 
to  the  checked  ginghams  underneath.  But 
I 'm  not  letting  the  ginghams  bother  me 
any  more.  Sufficient  unto  yesterday  is  the 
evil  thereof. 

I  forgot  to  tell  you  about  our  flowers. 
Master  Jervie  gave  us  each  a  big  bunch 
of  violets  and  lilies-of-the-valley.  Wasn't 
that  sweet  of  him?  I  never  used  to  care 
much  for  men  —  judging  by  Trustees  — 
but  I 'm  changing  my  mind. 

Eleven  pages  —  this  is  a  letter!  Have 
courage.    I 'm  going  to  stop. 

Yours  always, 

Judy. 


143 


April  ioth. 

Dear  Mr.  Rich-Man, 

Here 's  your  check  for  fifty  dollars. 
Thank  you  very  much,  but  I  do  not  feel 
that  I  can  keep  it.  My  allowance  is  suf- 
ficient to  afford  all  of  the  hats  that  I  need. 
I  am  sorry  that  I  wrote  all  that  silly  stuff 
about  the  millinery  shop ;  it 's  just  that  I 
had  never  seen  anything  like  it  before. 

However,  I  was  n't  begging !  And  I 
would  rather  not  accept  any  more  charity 
than  I  have  to. 

Sincerely  yours, 
Jerusha  Abbott. 


144 


April  nth. 

Dearest  Daddy, 

Will  you  please  forgive  me  for  the  letter 
I  wrote  you  yesterday?  After  I  posted  it 
I  was  sorry,  and  tried  to  get  it  back,  but 
that  beastly  mail  clerk  would  n't  give  it  to 
me. 

It's  the  middle  of  the  night  now;  I've 
been  awake  for.  hours  thinking  what  a 
Worm  I  am  —  what  a  Thousand-legged 
Worm  —  and  that 's  the  worst  I  can  say ! 
I 've  closed  the  door  very  softly  into  the 
study  so  as  not  to  wake  Julia  and  Sallie, 
and  am  sitting  up  in  bed  writing  to  you 
on  paper  torn  out  of  my  history  note-book. 

I  just  wanted  to  tell  you  that  I  am  sorry 
I  was  so  impolite  about  your  check.  I 
know  you  meant  it  kindly,  and  I  think 
you  're  an  old  dear  to  take  so  much  trouble 
145 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


for  such  a  silly  thing  as  a  hat.  I  ought  to 
have  returned  it  very  much  more  graciously. 

But  in  any  case,  I  had  to  return  it.  It 's 
different  with  me  than  with  other  girls. 
They  can  take  things  naturally  from  people. 
They  have  fathers  and  brothers  and  aunts 
and  uncles;  but  I  can't  be  on  any  such  re- 
lations with  any  one.  I  like  to  pretend  that 
you  belong  to  me,  just  to  play  with  the  idea, 
but  of  course  I  know  you  don't.  I  'm 
alone,  really  —  with  my  back  to  the  wall 
fighting  the  world  —  and  I  get  sort  of 
gaspy  when  I  think  about  it.  I  put  it  out 
of  my  mind,  and  keep  on  pretending;  but 
don't  you  see,  Daddy?  I  can't  accept  any 
more  money  than  I  have  to,  because  some 
day  I  shall  be  wanting  to  pay  it  back,  and 
even  as  great  an  author  as  I  intend  to  be, 
won't  be  able  to  face  a  perfectly  tremendous 
debt. 

I 'd  love  pretty  hats  and  things,  but  I 
must  n't  mortgage  the  future  to  pay  for 
them. 

146 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


You  '11  forgive  me,  won't  you,  for  being 
so  rude?  I  have  an  awful  habit  of  writing 
impulsively  when  I  first  think  things,  and 
then  posting  the  letter  beyond  recall.  But 
if  I  sometimes  seem  thoughtless  and  un- 
grateful, I  never  mean  it.  In  my  heart  I 
thank  you  always  for  the  life  and  freedom 
and  independence  that  you  have  given  me. 
My  childhood  was  just  a  long,  sullen  stretch 
of  revolt,  and  now  I  am  so  happy  every  mo- 
ment of  the  day  that  I  can't  believe  it 's 
true.  I  feel  like  a  made-up  heroine  in  a 
story-book. 

It 's  a  quarter  past  two.  I 'm  going  to 
tiptoe  out  to  the  mail  chute  and  get  this  off 
now.  You  '11  receive  it  in  the  next  mail 
after  the  other;  so  you  won't  have  a  very 
long  time  to  think  bad  of  me. 

Good  night,  Daddy, 

I  love  you  always, 

Judy. 


U7 


May  4th. 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

Field  Day  last  Saturday.  It  was  a  very 
spectacular  occasion.  First  we  had  a 
parade  of  all  the  classes,  with  everybody 
dressed  in  white  linen,  the  Seniors  carry- 
ing blue  and  gold  Japanese  umbrellas,  and 
the  Juniors  white  and  yellow  banners.  Our 
class  had  crimson  balloons  —  very  fetch- 
ing, especially  as  they  were  always  getting 
loose  and  floating  off  —  and  the  Freshmen 
wore  green  tissue-paper  hats  with  long 
streamers.  Also  we  had  a  band  in  blue 
uniforms  hired  from  town.  Also  about  a 
dozen  funny  people,  like  clowns  in  a  circus, 
to  keep  the  spectators  entertained  between 
events. 

Julia  was  dressed  as  a  fat  country  man 
with  a  linen  duster  and  whiskers  and  baggy 
148 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

umbrella.  Patsy  Moriarty  ( Patricia,  really. 
Did  you  ever  hear  such  a  name?  Mrs. 
Lippett  could  n't  have  done  better. )  who 
is  tall  and  thin  was  Julia's  wife  in  an 
absurd  green  bonnet  over  one  ear.  Waves 
of  laughter  followed  them  the  whole  length 
of  the  course.  Julia  played  the  part  ex- 
tremely well.  I  never  dreamed  that  a  Pen- 
dleton could  display  so  much  comedy  spirit 
—  begging  Master  Jervie's  pardon;  I  don't 
consider  him  a  true  Pendleton  though,  any 
more  than  I  consider  you  a  true  Trustee. 

Sallie  and  I  were  n't  in  the  parade  be- 
cause we  were  entered  for  the  events.  And 
what  do  you  think?  We  both  won!  At 
least  in  something.  We  tried  for  the  run- 
ning broad  jump  and  lost;  but  Sallie  won 
the  pole-vaulting  (seven  feet  three  inches) 
and  I  won  the  fifty-yard  dash  (eight  sec- 
onds). 

I  was  pretty  panting  at  the  end,  but  it 
was  great  fun,  with  the  whole  class  waving 
balloons  and  cheering  and  yelling: 
149 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


What's  the  matter  with  Judy  Abbott? 
She 's  all  right. 
Who's  all  right? 
Judy  Ab-bott ! 

That,  Daddy,  is  true  fame.  Then  trot- 
ting back  to  the  dressing  tent  and  being 
rubbed  down  with  alcohol  and  having  a 
lemon  to  suck.  You  see  wre  're  very  pro- 
fessional. It 's  a  fine  thing  to  win  an  event 
for  your  class,  because  the  class  that  wins 


the  most  gets  the  athletic  cup  for  the  year. 
The  Seniors  won  it  this  year,  with  seven 
events  to  their  credit.    The  athletic  asso- 


DADDY-LONG-lEGS 

ciation  gave  a  dinner  in  the  gymnasium  to 
all  of  the  winners.  We  hid  fried  soft- 
shell  crabs,  and  chocolate  ice-cream  molded 
in  the  shape  of  basket  balls. 

I  sat  up  half  of  last  night  reading  "  Jane 
Eyre."  Are  you  old  enough,  i  Daddy,  to 
remember  sixty  years  ago0  An$  if  so,  did 
people  talk  that  way? 

The  haughty  Lady  Blanche  say  s  to  the 
footman,  "  Stop  your  chattering,  \  knave, 
and  do  my  bidding."  Mr.  Rochester  talks 
about  the  metal  welkin  when  he  means  the 
sky ;  and  as  for  the  mad  woman  who  lat?ghs 
like  a  hyena  and  sets  fire  to  bed  curtail; 
and  tears  up  wedding  veils  and  bites  —  it 's 
melodrama  of  the  purest,  but  just  the  same, 
you  read  and  read  and  read.  I  can't  see 
how  any  girl  could  have  written  such  a 
book,  especially  any  girl  who  was  brought 
up  in  a  churchyard.  There 's  something 
about  those  Brontes  that  fascinates  me. 
Their  books,  their  lives,  their  spirit.  Where 
did  they  get  it  ?  When  I  was  reading  about 
151 


DA  DDY-LONG-LEGS 


little  Jane's  t  roubles  in  the  charity  school, 
I  got  so  angty  that  I  had  to  go  out  and 
take  a  walk.  /  I  understood  exactly  how  she 
felt  Having  known  Mrs.  Lippett,  I  could 
see  Mr.  Brocklehurst. 

Don't  be.  outraged,  Daddy.  I  am  not  in- 
timating fliat  the  John  Grier  Home  was 
like  the  "Lowood  Institute.  We  had  plenty 
to  eat  and  plenty  to  wear,  sufficient  water 
to  wash  in,  and  a  furnace  in  the  cellar.  But 
there  'was  one  deadly  likeness.  Our  lives 
were-  absolutely  monotonous  and  unevent- 
ful. Nothing  nice  ever  happened,  except 
?.ce-cream  on  Sundays,  and  even  that  was 
regular.  In  all  the  eighteen  years  I  was 
there  I  only  had  one  adventure  —  when  the 
wroodshed  burned.  We  had  to  get  up  in  the 
night  and  dress  so  as  to  be  ready  in  case 
the  house  should  catch.  But  it  did  n't  catch 
and  we  went  back  to  bed. 

Everybody  likes  a  few  surprises ;  it 's  a 
perfectly  natural  human  craving.  But  I 
152 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


never  had  one  until  Mrs.  Lippett  called  me 
to  the  office  to  tell  me  that  Mr.  John  Smith 
'was  going  to  send  me  to  college.  And 
then  she  broke  the  news  so  gradually  that  it 
just  barely  shocked  me. 

You  know,  Daddy,  I  think  that  the  most 
necessary  quality  for  any  person  to  have  is 
imagination.  It  makes  people  able  to  put 
themselves  in  other  people's  places.  It 
makes  them  kind  and  sympathetic  and  un- 
derstanding. It  ought  to  be  cultivated  in 
children.  But  the  John  Grier  Home  in- 
stantly stamped  out  the  slightest  flicker  that 
appeared.  Duty  was  the  one  quality  that 
was  encouraged.  I  don't  think  children 
ought  to  know  the  meaning  of  the  word; 
it  's  odious,  detestable.  They  ought  to  do 
everything  from  love. 

Wait  until  you  see  the  orphan  asylum 
^that  I  am  going  to  be  the  head  of!  It 's  my 
favorite  play  at  night  before  I  go  to  sleep. 
I  plan  it  out  to  the  littlest  detail  —  the 
153 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


meals  and  clothes  and  study  and  amuse- 
ments and  punishments;  for  even  my 
superior  orphans  are  sometimes  bad. 

But  anyway,  they  are  going  to  be  happy. 
I  think  that  every  one,  no  matter  how  many 
troubles  he  may  have  when  he  grows  up, 
ought  to  have  a  happy  childhood  to  look 
back  upon.  And  if  I  ever  have  any  chil- 
dren of  my  own,  no  matter  how  unhappy 
I  may  be,  I  am  not  going  to  let  them  have 
any  cares  until  they  grow  up. 

(There  goes  the  chapel  bell  —  I'll  finish 
this  letter  sometime.) 

Thursday. 

When  I  came  in  from  laboratory  this 
afternoon,  I  found  a  squirrel  sitting  on 
the  tea  table  helping  himself  to  almonds. 
These  are  the  kind  of  callers  we  entertain 
now  that  warm  weather  has  come  and  the 
window  stays  open  — 

154 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


'    Saturday  morning. 

Perhaps  you  think,  last  night  being  Fri- 
day, with  no  classes  to-day,  that  I  passed  a 
nice  quiet,  readable  evening  with  the  set 
of  Stevenson  that  I  bought  with  my  prize 
money?  But  if  so,  you've  never  attended 
a  girls'  college,  Daddy  dear.  Six  friends 
dropped  in  to  make  fudge,  and  one  of  them 
dropped  the  fudge- — while  it  was  still 
liquid  —  right  in  the  middle  of  our  best 
rug.  We  shall  never  be  able  to  clean  up 
the  mess. 

m 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


I  have  n't  mentioned  any  lessons  of  late ; 
but  we  are  still  having  them  every  day. 
It 's  sort  of  a  relief  though,  to  get  away 
from  them  and  discuss  life  in  the  large  — 
rather  one-sided  discussions  that  you  and 
I  hold,  but  that 's  your  own  fault.  You  are 
welcome  to  answer  back  any  time  you 
choose. 

I  Ve  been  writing  this  letter  off  and  on 
for  three  days,  and  I  fear  by  now  vous  etes 
bien  bored ! 

Good-by,  nice  Mr.  Man, 

Judy. 


156 


Mr.  Daddy-Long-Legs  Smith. 

Sir  :  Having  completed  the  study  of  ar- 
gumentation and  the  science  of  dividing  a 
thesis  into  heads,  I  have  decided  to  adopt 
the  following  form  for  letter-writing.  It 
contains  all  necessary  facts,  but  no  unnec- 
essary verbiage. 

I.  We  had  written  examinations  this 
week  in: 

A.  Chemistry. 

B.  History. 

II.  A  new  dormitory  is  being  built. 

A.  Its  material  is: 

(a)  red  brick. 

(b)  gray  stone. 

B.  Its  capacity  will  be: 

(a)  one  dean,  five  instructors. 

(b)  two  hundred  girls. 

157 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


(c)  one  housekeeper,  three  cooks, 
twenty  waitresses,  twenty  cham- 
bermaids. 

III.  We  had  junket  for  dessert  to-night 

IV.  I  am  writing  a  special  topic  upon 
the  Sources  of  Shakespeare's  Plays. 

V.  Lou  McMahon  slipped  and  fell  this 
afternoon  at  basket  ball,  and  she : 

A.  Dislocated  her  shoulder. 

B.  Bruised  her  knee. 

VI.  I  have  a  new  hat  trimmed  with : 

A.  Blue  velvet  ribbon. 

B.  Two  blue  quills. 

C.  Three  red  pompons. 

VII.  It  is  half-past  nine. 

VIII.  Good  night. 

JUDYo 


158 


.  June  2d. 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

You  will  never  guess  the  nice  thing  that 
has  happened. 

The  McBrides  have  asked  me  to  spend 
the  summer  at  their  camp  in  the  Adiron- 
dack^! They  belong  to  a  sort  of  club  on 
a  lovely  little  lake  in  the  middle  of  the 
woods.  The  different  members  have  houses 
made  of  logs  dotted  about  among  the  trees, 
and  they  go  canoeing  on  the  lake,  and  take 
long  walks  through  trails  to  other  camps, 
and  have  dances  once  a  week  in  the  club 
house  —  Jimmie  McBride  is  going  to  have 
a  college  friend  visiting  him  part  of  the 
summer,  so  you  see  we  shall  have  plenty  of 
men  to  dance  with. 

Was  n't  it  sweet  of  Mrs.  McBride  to  ask 
159 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


me?  It  appears  that  she  liked  me  when  I 
was  there  for  Christmas. 

Please  excuse  this  being  short.  It  is  n't 
a  real  letter;  it 's  just  to  let  you  know  that 
I 'm  disposed  of  for  the  summer. 

Yours, 

In  a  very  contented  frame  of  mind, 

JUDYo 


160 


June  5th. 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

Your  secretary  man  has  just  written  to 
me  saying  that  Mr.  Smith  prefers  that  I 
should  not  accept  Mrs.  McBride's  invita- 
tion, but  should  return  to  Lock  Willow  the 
same  as  last  summer. 

Why,  why,  why,  Daddy? 

You  don't  understand  about  it.  Mrs. 
McBride  does  want  me,  really  and  truly. 
I 'm  not  the  least  bit  of  trouble  in  the  house. 
I 'm  a  help.  They  don't  take  up  many 
servants,  and  Sallie  and  I  can  do  lots  of 
useful  things.  It 's  a  fine  chance  for  me  to 
learn  housekeeping.  Every  woman  ought 
to  understand  it,  and  I  only  know  asylum- 
keeping. 

There  are  n't  any  girls  our  age  at  the 
camp,  and  Mrs.  McBride  wants  me  for  a 
11  161 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


companion  for  Sallie.  We  are  planning  to 
do  a  lot  of  reading  together.  We  are 
going  to  read  all  of  the  books  for  next 
year's  English  and  sociology.  The  Pro- 
fessor said  it  would  be  a  great  help  if  we 
would  get  our  reading  finished  in  the  sum- 
mer; and  it's  so  much  easier  to  remember 
it,  if  we  read  together  and  talk  it  over. 

Just  to  live  in  the  same  house  with  Sal- 
lie's  mother  is  an  education.  She 's  the 
most  interesting,  entertaining,  companion- 
able, charming  woman  in  the  world;  she 
knows  everything.  Think  how  many  sum- 
mers I 've  spent  with  Mrs.  Lippett  and  how 
I'll  appreciate  the  contrast.  You  needn't 
be  afraid  that  I  '11  be  crowding  them,  for 
their  house  is  made  of  rubber.  When  they 
have  a  lot  of  company,  they  just  sprinkle 
tents  about  in  the  woods  and  turn  the  boys 
outside.  It 's  going  to  be  such  a  nice, 
healthy  summer  exercising  out  of  doors 
every  minute.  Jimmie  McBride  is  going 
to  teach  me  how  to  ride  horseback  and  pad- 
162 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


die  a  canoe,  and  how  to  shoot  and  —  oh, 
lots  of  things  I  ought  to  know.  It  's  the 
kind  of  nice,  jolly,  care-free  time  that  I  Ve 
never  had;  and  I  think  every  girl  deserves 
it  once  in  her  life.  Of  course  I  '11  do  ex- 
actly as  you  say,  but  please,  please  let  me 
go,  Daddy.  I 've  never  wanted  anything 
so  much. 

This  is  n't  Jerusha  Abbott,  the  future 
great  author,  writing  to  you.  It 's  just 
Judy  —  a  girl. 


163 


June  9th. 

Mr.  John  Smith. 

Sir:  Yours  of  the  7th  inst.  at  hand.  In 
compliance  with  the  instructions  received 
through  your  secretary,  I  leave  on  Friday 
next  to  spend  the  summer  at  Lock  Willow 
Farm. 

I  hope  always  to  remain, 

(Miss)  Jerusha  Abbott, 


164 


Lock  Willow  Farm, 

August  Third. 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

It  has  been  nearly  two  months  since  I 
wrote,  which  was  n't  nice  of  me,  I  know, 
but  I  have  n't  loved  you  much  this  summer 
—  you  see  I 'm  being  frank ! 

You  can't  imagine  how  disappointed  I 
was  at  having  to  give  up  the  McBride's  camp. 
Of  course  I  know  that  you  're  my  guardian, 
and  that  I  have  to  regard  your  wishes  in  all 
matters,  but  I  could  n't  see  any  reason.  It 
was  so  distinctly  the  best  thing  that  could 
have  happened  to  me.  If  I  had  been 
Daddy,  and  you  had  been  Judy,  I  should 
have  said,  "  Bless  you,  my  child,  run  along 
and  have  a  good  time;  see  lots  of  new  peo- 
ple and  learn  lots  of  new  things;  live  out 
165 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


of  doors,  and  get  strong  and  well  and  rested 
for  a  year  of  hard  work." 

But  not  at  all!  Just  a  curt  line  from 
your  secretary  ordering  me  to  Lock  Wil- 
low. 

It 's  the  impersonality  of  your  commands 
that  hurts  my  feelings.  It  seems  as  though, 
if  you  felt  the  tiniest  little  bit  for  me  the 
way  I  feel  for  you,  you 'd  sometimes  send 
me  a  message  that  you 'd  written  with  your 
own  hand,  instead  of  those  beastly  typewrit- 
ten secretary's  notes.  If  there  were  the 
slightest  hint  that  you  cared,  I  'd  do  any- 
thing on  earth  to  please  you. 

I  know  that  I  was  to  write  nice,  long,  de- 
tailed letters  without  ever  expecting  any 
answer.  You're  living  up  to  your  side  of 
the  bargain  —  I 'm  being  educated  —  and  I 
suppose  you  're  thinking  I 'm  not  living  up 
to  mine! 

But,  Daddy,  it  is  a  hard  bargain.    It  is, 
really.    I 'm  so  awfully  lonely.    You  are 
the  only  person  I  have  tr  care  for,  and  you 
166 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


are  so  shadowy.  You  're  just  an  imag- 
inary man  that  I  Ve  made  up  —  and  prob- 
ably the  real  you  is  n't  a  bit  like  my  imag- 
inary you.  But  you  did  once,  when  I  was 
ill  in  the  infirmary,  send  me  a  message,  and 
now,  when  I  am  feeling  awfully  forgotten, 
I  get  out  your  card  and  read  it  over. 

I  don't  think  I  am  telling  you  at  all  what 
I  started  to  say,  which  was  this: 

Although  my  feelings  are  still  hurt,  for 
it  is  very  humiliating  to  be  picked  up  and 
moved  about  by  an  arbitrary,  peremptory, 
unreasonable,  omnipotent,  invisible  Provi- 
dence, still,  when  a  man  has  been  as  kind 
and  generous  and  thoughtful  as  you  have 
heretofore  been  toward  me,  I  suppose  he 
has  a  right  to  be  an  arbitrary,  peremptory, 
unreasonable,  invisible  Providence  if  he 
chooses,  and  so  —  I  '11  forgive  you  and  be 
cheerful  again.  But  I  still  don't  enjoy  get- 
ting Sallie's  letters  about  the  good  times 
they  are  having  in  camp! 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


However  —  we  will  draw  a  veil  over  that 
and  begin  again. 

I 've  been  writing  and  writing  this  sum- 
mer; four  short  stories  finished  and  sent  to 
four  different  magazines.  So  you  see  I  'm 
trying  to  be  an  author.  I  have  a  work- 
room fixed  in  a  corner  of  the  attic  where 
Master  Jervie  used  to  have  his  rainy-day 
playroom.  It 's  in  a  cool,  breezy  corner 
with  two  dormer  windows,  and  shaded  by 
a  maple  tree  with  a  family  of  red  squirrels 
living  in  a  hole. 

I  '11  write  a  nicer  letter  in  a  few  days  and 
tell  you  all  the  farm  news. 

We  need  rain. 

Yours  as  ever, 

Judy. 


168 


August  ioth. 

Mr.  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

Sir:  I  address  you  from  the  second 
crotch  in  the  willow  tree  by  the  pool  in  the 
pasture.  There 's  a  frog  croaking  under- 
neath, a  locust  singing  overhead  and  two 
little  "  devil  down-heads  "  darting  up  and 
down  the  trunk.  I  've  been  here  for  an 
hour;  it's  a  very  comfortable  crotch,  es- 
pecially after  being  upholstered  with  two 
sofa  cushions.  I  came  up  with  a  pen  and 
tablet  hoping  to  write  an  immortal  short 
story,  but  I 've  been  having  a  dreadful  time 
with  my  heroine  —  I  can't  make  her  behave 
as  I  want  her  to  behave ;  so  I 've  abandoned 
her  for  the  moment,  and  am  writing  to 
you.  (Mot  much  relief  though,  for  I  can't 
make  you  behave  as  I  want  you  to,  either.) 

If  you  are  in  that  dreadful  New  York, 
169 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


I  wish  I  could  send  you  some  of  this  lovely, 
breezy,  sunshiny  outlook.  The  country  is 
Heaven  after  a  week  of  rain. 

Speaking  of  Heaven  —  do  you  remem- 
ber Mr.  Kellogg  that  I  told  you  about  last 
summer?  —  the  minister  of  the  little  white 
church  at  the  Corners.  Well,  the  poor  old 
soul  is  dead  —  last  winter  of  pneumonia. 
I  went  half-a-dozen  times  to  hear  him  preach 
and  got  very  well  acquainted  with  his  the- 
ology. He  believed  to  the  end,  exactly  the 
same  things  he  started  with.  It  seems  to 
me  that  a  man  who  can  think  straight  along 
for  forty-seven  years  without  changing  a 
single  idea  ought  to  be  kept  in  a  cabinet  as 
a  curiosity.  I  hope  he  is  enjoying  his  harp 
and  golden  crown;  he  was  so  perfectly  sure 
of  finding  them!  There's  a  new  young 
man,  very  up  and  coming,  in  his  place.  The 
congregation  is  pretty  dubious,  especially  the 
faction  led  by  Deacon  Cummings.  It  looks 
as  though  there  was  going  to  be  an  awful 
split  in  the  church.  We  don't  care  for 
170 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


innovations  in  religion  in  this  neighbor- 
hood. 

During  our  week  of  rain  I  sat  up  in  the 
attic  and  had  an  orgie  of  reading  —  Steven- 
son, mostly.  He  himself  is  more  enter- 
taining than  any  of  the  characters  in  his 
books;  I  dare  say  he  made  himself  into 
the  kind  of  hero  that  would  look  well  in 
print.  Don't  you  think  it  was  perfect  of 
him  to  spend  all  the  ten  thousand  dollars 
his  father  left,  for  a  yacht,  and  go  sailing 
off  to  the  South  Seas  ?  He  lived  up  to  his 
adventurous  creed.  If  my  father  had  left 
me  ten  thousand  dollars,  I 'd  do  it,  too. 
The  thought  of  Vailima  makes  me  wild.  I 
want  to  see  the  tropics.  I  want  to  see  the 
whole  world.  I  am  going  to  some  day  — 
I  am,  really,  Daddy,  when  I  get  to  be  a 
great  author,  or  artist,  or  actress,  or  play- 
wright —  or  whatever  sort  of  a  great  per- 
son I  turn  out  to  be.  I  have  a  terrible 
wanderthirst ;  the  very  sight  of  a  map  makes 
me  want  to  put  on  my  hat  and  take  an  um- 
171 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


brella  and  start.  "  I  shall  see  before  I  die 
the  palms  and  temples  of  the  South." 

Thursday  evening  at  twilight,  sitting  on 
the  doorstep. 
Very  hard  to  get  any  news  into  this  let- 
ter!   Judy  is  becoming  so  philosophical  of 
late,  that  she  wishes  to  discourse  largely  of 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


the  world  in  general,  instead  of  descending 
to  the  trivial  details  of  daily  life.  But  if 
you  must  have  news,  here  it  is: 

Our  nine  young  pigs  waded  across  the 
brook  and  ran  away  last  Tuesday,  and  only 
eight  came  back.  We  don't  want  to  ac- 
cuse any  one  unjustly,  but  we  suspect  that 
Widow  Dowd  has  one  more  than  she  ought 
to  have. 

Mr.  Weaver  has  painted  his  barn  and  his 
two  silos  a  bright  pumpkin  yellow  —  a  very 
ugly  color,  but  he  says  it  will  wear. 

The  Brewers  have  company  this  week; 
Mrs.  Brewer's  sister  and  two  nieces  from 
Ohio. 


One  of  our  Rhode  Island  Reds  only 
brought  off  three  chicks  out  of  fifteen  eggs. 


173 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


We  can't  imagine  what  was  the  trouble. 
Rhode  Island  Reds,  in  my  opinion,  are  a 
very  inferior  breed.  I  prefer  Buff  Orping- 
tons. 

The  new  clerk  in  the  post-office  at  Bon- 
nyrigg Four  Corners  drank  every  drop  of 
Jamaica  ginger  they  had  in  stock  —  seven 
dollars'  worth  —  before  he  was  discovered. 

Old  Ira  Hatch  has  rheumatism  and  can't 
work  any  more;  he  never  saved  his  money 
when  he  was  earning  good  wages,  so  now 
he  has  to  live  on  the  town. 

There 's  to  be  an  ice-cream  social  at  the 
schoolhouse  next  Saturday  evening.  Come 
and  bring  your  families. 

I  have  a  new  hat  that  I  bought  for 
twenty-five  cents  at  the  post-office.  This  is 
my  latest  portrait,  on  my  way  to  rake  the 
hay. 

It 's  getting  too  dark  to  see ;  anyway,  the 
oews  is  all  used  up. 

Good  night, 

Judy. 

174 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


never  guess  who 's  coming  to  Lock  Willow. 
A  letter  to  Mrs.  Semple  from  Mr.  Pendle- 
ton. He 's  motoring  through  the  Berk- 
shires,  and  is  tired  and  wants  to  rest  on  a 
nice  quiet  farm  —  if  he  climbs  out  at  her 
doorstep  some  night  will  she  have  a  room 
ready  for  him  ?  Maybe  he  '11  stay  one 
week,  or  maybe  two,  or  maybe  three ;  he  '11 
see  how  restful  it  is  when  he  gets  here. 

Such  a  flutter  as  we  are  in!  The  whole 
house  is  being  cleaned  and  all  the  curtains 
washed.  I  am  driving  to  the  Corners  this 
morning  to  get  some  new  oilcloth  for  the 
entry,  and  two  cans  of  brown  floor  paint 
for  the  hall  and  back  stairs.  Mrs.  Dowd 
is  engaged  to  come  to-morrow  to  wash  the 
windows  (in  the  exigency  of  the  moment, 
we  waive  our  suspicions  in  regard  to  the 
piglet).  You  might  think,  from  this  ac- 
count of  our  activities,  that  the  house  was 
not  already  immaculate;  but  I  assure  you 
it  was!  Whatever  Mrs.  Semple's  limita- 
tions, she  is  a  HOUSEKEEPER. 

176 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


But  is  n't  it  just  like  a  man,  Daddy?  He 
does  n't  give  the  remotest  hint  as  to  whether 
he  will  land  on  the  doorstep  to-day,  or  two 
weeks  from  to-day.  We  shall  live  in  a 
perpetual  breathlessness  until  he  comes  — 
and  if  he  does  n't  hurry,  the  cleaning  may 
all  have  to  be  done  over  again. 

There 's  Amasai  waiting  below  with  the 
buckboard  and  Grover.    I  drive  alone  — 


but  if  you  could  see  old  Grove,  you  would  n't 
be  worried  as  to  my  safety. 

With  my  hand  on  my  heart  —  farewell. 

Judy. 

177 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


P.  S.  Is  n't  that  a  nice  ending?  I  got  it 
out  of  Stevenson's  letters. 

Saturday. 

Good  morning  again !  I  did  n't  get  this 
enveloped  yesterday  before  the  postman 
came,  so  I  '11  add  some  more.  We  have 
one  mail  a  day  at  twelve  o'clock.  Rural 
delivery  is  a  blessing  to  the  farmers !  Our 
postman  not  only  delivers  letters,  but  he 
runs  errands  for  us  in  town,  at  five  cents 
an  errand.  Yesterday  he  brought  me  some 
shoe-strings  and  a  jar  of  cold  cream  (I 
sunburned  all  the  skin  off  my  nose  before 
I  got*  my  new  hat)  and  a  blue  Windsor  tie 
and  a  bottle  of  blacking  all  for  ten  cents. 
That  was  an  unusual  bargain,  owing  to  the 
largeness  of  my  order. 

Also  he  tells  us  what  is  happening  in  the 
Great  World.  Several  people  on  the  route 
take  daily  papers,  and  he  reads  them  as  he 
jogs  along,  and  repeats  the  news  to  the 
ones  who  don't  subscribe.  So  in  case  a 
178 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


war  breaks  out  between  the  United  States 
and  Japan,  or  the  president  is  assassinated, 
or  Mr.  Rockefeller  leaves  a  million  dollars 
to  the  John  Grier  Home,  you  need  n't 
bother  to  write ;  I  '11  hear  it  anyway. 

No  sign  yet  of  Master  Jervie.  But  you 
should  see  how  clean  our  house  is  —  and 
with  what  anxiety  we  wipe  our  feet  before 
we  step  in! 

I  hope  he  '11  come  soon ;  I  am  longing  for 
some  one  to  talk  to.  Mrs.  Semple,  to  tell 
you  the  truth,  gets  sort  of  monotonous. 
She  never  lets  ideas  interrupt  the  easy  flow 
of  her  conversation.  It's  a  funny  thing 
about  the  people  here.  Their  world  is  just 
this  single  hilltop.  They  are  not  a  bit  uni- 
versal, if  you  know  what  I  mean.  It 's  ex- 
actly the  same  as  at  the  John  Grier  Home. 
Our  ideas  there  were  bounded  by  the  four 
sides  of  the  iron  fence,  only  I  did  n't  mind 
it  so  much  because  I  was  younger  and  was 
so  awfully  busy.  By  the  time  I  'd  got  all 
my  beds  made  and  my  babies'  faces  washed 
179 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


and  had  gone  to  school  and  come  home  and 
had  washed  their  faces  again  and  darned 
their  stockings  and  mended  Freddie  Per- 
kins's trousers  (he  tore  them  every  day  of 
his  life)  and  learned  my  lessons  in  between 
—  I  was  ready  to  go  to  bed,  and  I  did  n't 
notice  any  lack  of  social  intercourse.  But 
after  two  years  in  a  conversational  college, 
I  do  miss  it ;  and  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  some- 
body who  speaks  my  language. 

I  really  believe  I  Ve  finished,  Daddy. 
Nothing  else  occurs  to  me  at  the  moment  — 
I  '11  try  to  write  a  longer  letter  next  time. 

Yours  always, 

Judy. 

P.  S.  The  lettuce  has  n't  done  at  all  well 
this  year.  It  was  so  dry  early  in  the  sea- 
son. 


180 


August  25th. 

Well,  Daddy,  Master  Jervie 's  here. 
And  such  a  nice  time  as  we  're  having !  At 
least  I  am,  and  I  think  he  is,  too  —  he  has 
been  here  ten  days  and  he  does  n't  show  any 
signs  of  going.  The  way  Mrs.  Semple 
pampers  that  man  is  scandalous.  If  she 
indulged  him  as  much  when  he  was  a  baby, 
I  don't  know  how  he  ever  turned  out  so 
well. 

He  and  I  eat  at  a  little  table  set  on  the 
side  porch,  or  sometimes  under  the  trees, 
or  —  when  it  rains  or  is  cold  —  in  the  best 
parlor.  He  just  picks  out  the  spot  he 
wants  to  eat  in  and  Carrie  trots  after  him 
with  the  table.  Then  if  it  has  been  an  aw- 
ful nuisance,  and  she  has  had  to  carry  the 
dishes  very  far,  she  finds  a  dollar  under  the 
sugar  bowL 

181 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

He  is  an  awfully  companionable  sort  of 
man,  though  you  would  never  believe  it  to 
see  him  casually;  he  looks  at  first  glance 
like  a  true  Pendleton,  but  he  is  n't  in  the 
least.  He  is  just  as  simple  and  unaffected 
and  sweet  as  he  can  be  —  that  seems  a 
funny  way  to  describe  a  man,  but  it 's  true. 
He 's  extremely  nice  with  the  farmers 
around  here;  he  meets  them  in  a  sort  of 
man-to-man  fashion  that  disarms  them  im- 
mediately. They  were  very  suspicious  at 
first.  They  did  n't  care  for  his  clothes ! 
And  I  will  say  that  his  clothes  are  rather 
amazing.  He  wears  knickerbockers  and 
pleated  jackets  and  white  flannels  and  rid- 
ing clothes  with  puffed  trousers.  When- 
ever he  comes  down  in  anything  new,  Mrs. 
Semple,  beaming  with  pride,  walks  around 
and  viewTs  him  from  every  angle,  and  urges 
him  to  be  careful  where  he  sits  down;  she 
is  so  afraid  he  will  pick  up  some  dust.  It 
bores  him  dreadfully.  He 's  always  say- 
ing to  her : 

182 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


"  Run  along,  Lizzie,  and  tend  to  your 
work.  You  can't  boss  me  any  longer.  I 've 
grown  up." 

It  's  awfully  funny  to  think  of  that  great, 
big,  long-legged  man  (he  's  nearly  as  long- 
legged  as  you,  Daddy)  ever  sitting  in  Mrs. 
Semple's  lap  and  having  his  face  washed. 
Particularly  funny  when  you  see  her  lap! 
She  has  two  laps  now,  and  three  chins. 
But  he  says  that  once  she  was  thin  and 
wiry  and  spry  and  could  run  faster  than 
he. 

Such  a  lot  of  adventures  we're  having! 
We 've  explored  the  country  for  miles,  and 
I 've  learned  to  fish  with  funny  little  flies 
made  of  feathers.  Also  to  shoot  with  a 
rifle  and  a  revolver.  Also  to  ride  horse- 
back—  there's  an  astonishing  amount  of 
life  in  old  Grove.  We  fed  him  on  oats  for 
three  days,  and  he  shied  at  a  calf  and  almost 
ran  away  with  me. 


183 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


Wednesday. 

We  climbed  Sky  Hill  Monday  afternoon. 
That  '$  a  mountain  near  here ;  not  an  aw- 
fully high  mountain,  perhaps  —  no  snow 
on  the  summit  —  but  at  least  you  are  pretty 
breathless  when  you  reach  the  top.  The 
lower  slopes  are  covered  with  woods,  but 
the  top  is  just  piled  rocks  and  open  moor. 
We  stayed  up  for  the  sunset  and  built  a  fire 
and  cooked  our  supper.  Master  Jervie  did 
184 


* 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


the  cooking;  he  said  he  knew  how  better 
than  me  —  and  he  did,  too,  because  he 's 
i  used  to  camping.  Then  we  came  down  by 
moonlight,  and,  when  we  reached  the  wood 
trail  where  it  was  dark,  by  the  light  of  an 
electric  bulb  that  he  had  in  his  pocket.  It 
was  such  fun!  He  laughed  and  joked  all 
the  way  and  talked  about  interesting  things. 
He 's  read  all  the  books  I  Ve  ever  read, 
and  a  lot  of  others  besides.  It 's  astonish- 
ing how  many  different  things  he  knows. 

We  went  for  a  long  tramp  this  morning 
and  got  caught  in  a  storm.  Our  clothes 
were  drenched  before  we  reached  home  — 
but  our  spirits  not  even  damp.  You  should 
have  seen  Mrs.  Semple's  face  when  we 
dripped  into  her  kitchen. 

"  Oh,  Master  Jervie  —  Miss  Judy !  You 
are  soaked  through.  Dear !  Dear !  What 
shall  I  do?  That  nice  new  coat  is  per- 
fectly  ruined." 

She  was  awfully  funny;  you  would  have 
thought  that  we  were  ten  years  old,  and 

185 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


she  a  distracted  mother.  I  was  afraid  for 
a  while  that  we  were  n't  going  to  get  any 
jam  for  tea. 

Saturday. 

I  started  this  letter  ages  ago,  but  I 
haven't  had  a  second  to  finish  it. 

Is  n't  this  a  nice  thought  from  Steven- 
son? 

The  world  is  so  full  of  a  number  of  things, 
I  am  sure  we  should  all  be  as  happy  as  kings. 

It 's  true,  you  know.  The  world  is  full 
of  happiness,  and  plenty  to  go  round,  if 
you  are  only  willing  to  take  the  kind  that 
comes  your  way.  The  whole  secret  is  in 
being  pliable.  In  the  country,  especially, 
there  are  such  a  lot  of  entertaining  things. 
I  can  walk  over  everybody's  land,  and  look 
at  everybody's  view,  and  dabble  in  every- 
body's brook;  and  enjoy  it  just  as  much  as 
though  I  owned  the  land  —  and  with  no 
taxes  to  pay! 

186 


I 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


It 's  Sunday  night  now,  about  eleven 
o'clock,  and  I  am  supposed  to  be  getting 
some  beauty  sleep,  but  I  had  black  coffee 
for  dinner,  so  —  no  beauty  sleep  for  me ! 

This  morning,  said  Mrs.  Semple  to 
Mr.  Pendleton,  with  a  very  determined 
accent : 

"  We  have  to  leave  here  at  a  quarter  past 
ten  in  order  to  get  to  church  by  eleven." 

"Very. well,  Lizzie,"  said  Master  Jervie, 
"  you  have  the  surrey  ready,  and  if  I 'm 
not  dressed,  just  go  on  without  waiting." 

"  We  '11  wait,"  said  she. 

"  As  you  please,"  said  he,  "  only  don't 
keep  the  horses  standing  too  long." 
'  Then  while  she  was  dressing,  he  told 
Carrie  to  pack  up  a  lunch,  and  he  told  me 
to  scramble  into  my  walking  clothes;  and 
we  slipped  out  the  back  way  and  went  fish- 
ing. 

It  discommoded  the  household  dreadfully, 
because  Lock  Willow  of  a  Sunday  dines  at 
two.    But  he  ordered  dinner  at  seven  — 
187 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


he  orders  meals  whenever  he  chooses;  you 
would  think  the  place  were  a  restaurant  — 
and  that  kept  Carrie  and  Amasai  from 
going  driving.  But  he  said  it  was  all  the 
better  because  it  was  n't  proper  for  them 
to  go  driving  without  a  chaperon ;  and  any- 
way, he  wanted  the  horses  himself  to  take 
me  driving.  Did  you  ever  hear  anything 
so  funny? 

And  poor  Mrs.  Semple  believes  that  peo- 
ple who  go  fishing  on  Sundays,  go  after- 
wards to  a  sizzling  hot  hell !  She  is  aw- 
fully troubled  to  think  that  she  did  n't  train 
him  better  when  he  was  small  and  helpless 
and  she  had  the  chance.  Besides  —  she 
wished  to  show  him  off  in  church. 

Anyway,  we  had  our  fishing  (he  caught 
four  little  ones)  and  we  cooked  them  on  a 
camp-fire  for  lunch.  They  kept  falling  off 
our  spiked  sticks  into  the  fire,  so  they  tasted 
a  little  ashy,  but  we  ate  them.  We  got 
home  at  four  and  went  driving  at  five  and 
188 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


had  dinner  at  seven,  and  at  ten  I  was  sent 
to  bed  —  and  here  I  am,  writing  to  you. 
I  am  getting  a  little  sleepy  though. 

Good  night. 

Here  is  a  picture  of  the  one  fish  I  caught. 


189 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


Ship  ahoy,  Cap'n  Long-Legs! 

Avast!  Belay!  Yo,  ho,  ho,  and  a  bot- 
tle of  rum.  Guess  what  I 'm  reading  ?  Our 
conversation  these  past  two  days  has  been 
nautical  and  piratical.  Is  n't  "  Treasure 
Island "  fun  ?  Did  you  ever  read  it,  or 
was  n't  it  written  when  you  were  a  boy  ? 
Stevenson  only  got  thirty  pounds  for  the 
serial  rights  —  I  don't  believe  it  pays  to  be 
a  great  author.    Maybe  I  '11  teach  school. 

Excuse  me  for  filling  my  letters  so  full 
of  Stevenson;  my  mind  is  very  much  en- 
gaged with  him  at  present.  He  comprises 
Lock  Willow's  library. 

190 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

I 've  been  writing  this  letter  for  two 
weeks,  and  I  think  it 's  about  long  enough. 
Never  say,  Daddy,  that  I  don't  give  details. 
I  wish  you  were  here,  too;  we'd  all  have 
such  a  jolly  time  together.  I  like  my  dif- 
ferent friends  to  know  each  other.  I 
wanted  to  ask  Mr.  Pendleton  if  he  knew 
you  in  New  York  —  I  should  think  he 
might ;  you  must  move  in  about  the  same 
exalted  social  circles,  and  you  are  both  in- 
terested in  reforms  and  things  —  but  I 
could  n't,  for  I  don't  know  your  real  name. 

It 's  the  silliest  thing  I  ever  heard  of,  not 
to  know  your  name.  Mrs.  Lippett  warned 
me  that  you  were  eccentric.  I  should  think 
so! 

Affectionately, 

Judy. 

P.  S.  On  reading  this  over,  I  find  that 
it  isn't  all  Stevenson.  There  are  one  or 
two  glancing  references  to  Master  Jervie. 


191 


September  ioth. 

Dear  Daddy, 

He  has  gone,  and  we  are  missing  him! 
When  you  get  accustomed  to  people  or 
places  or  ways  of  living,  and  then  have  them 
suddenly  snatched  away,  it  does  leave  an 
awfully  empty,  gnawing  sort  of  sensation. 
I 'm  finding  Mrs.  Semple's  conversation 
pretty  unseasoned  food. 

College  opens  in  two  weeks  and  I  shall 
be  glad  to  begin  work  again.  I  have 
worked  quite  a  lot  this  summer  though  — 
six  short  stories  and  seven  poems.  Those 
I  sent  to  the  magazines  all  came  back  with 
the  most  courteous  promptitude.  But  I 
don't  mind.  It  's  good  practice.  Master 
Jervie  read  them  —  he  brought  in  the  mail, 
so  I  could  n't  help  his  knowing  —  and  he 
said  they  were  dreadful.  They  showed 
192 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


that  I  did  n't  have  the  slightest  idea  of  what 
I  was  talking  about.  (Master  Jervie 
doesn't  let  politeness  interfere  with  truth.) 
But  the  last  one  I  did  —  just  a  little  sketch 
laid  in  college  —  he  said  was  n't  bad ;  and 
he  had  it  typewritten,  and  I  sent  it  to  a 
magazine.  They've  had  it  two  weeks; 
maybe  they  're  thinking  it  over. 

You  should  see  the  sky !  There 's  the 
queerest  orange-colored  light  over  every- 
thing.   We  're  going  to  have  a  storm. 

It  commenced  just  that  moment  with 
drops  as  big  as  quarters  and  all  the  shut- 
ters banging.  I  had  to  run  to  close  win- 
dows, while  Carrie  flew  to  the  attic  with 
an  armful  of  milk  pans  to  put  under  the 
places  where  the  roof  leaks  —  and  then, 
just  as  I  was  resuming  my  pen,  I  remem- 
bered that  I 'd  left  a  cushion  and  rug  and 
hat  and  Matthew  Arnold's  poems  under  a 
tree  in  the  orchard,  so  I  dashed  out  to  get 
them,  all  quite  soaked.    The  red  cover  of 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


the  poems  had  run  into  the  inside ;  "  Dover 
Beach  "  in  the  future  will  be  washed  by  pink 
waves. 

A  storm  is  awfully  disturbing  in  the 
country.  You  are  always  having  to  think 
of  so  many  things  that  are  out  of  doors  and 
getting  spoiled. 

Thursday. 

Daddy!  Daddy!  What  do  you  think? 
The  postman  has  just  come  with  two  let- 
ters. 

ist. —  My  story  is  accepted.  $50. 

Alors!    I'm  an  AUTHOR. 

2d. —  A  letter  from  the  college  secretary. 
I 'm  to  have  a  scholarship  for  two  years 
that  will  cover  board  and  tuition.  It  was 
founded  by  an  alumna  for  "  marked  pro- 
ficiency in  English  with  general  excellency 
in  other  lines."  And  I've  won  it!  I  ap- 
plied for  it  before  I  left,  but  I  did  n't  have 
an  idea  I 'd  get  it,  on  account  of  my  Fresh- 
man bad  work  in  math,  and  Latin.  But  it 
194- 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

seems  I  Ve  made  it  up.  I  am  awfully  glad, 
Daddy,  because  now  I  won't  be  such  a  bur- 
den to  you.  The  monthly  allowance  will 
be  all  I  '11  need,  arid  maybe  I  can  earn  that 
with  writing  or  tutoring  or  something. 
I  'm  crazy  to  go  back  and  begin  work. 

Yours  ever, 
Jerusha  Abbott, 

Author  of,  "  When  the  Sophomores 
Won  the  Game."  For  sale  at  all 
news  stands,  price  ten  cents. 


195 


n 

September  26th. 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

Back  at  college  again  and  an  upper  class- 
man. Our  study  is  better  than  ever  this 
year  —  faces  the  South  with  two  huge  win- 
dows —  and  oh !  so  furnished.  Julia,  with 
an  unlimited  allowance,  arrived  two  days 
early  and  was  attacked  with  a  fever  of  set- 
tling. 

We  have  new  wall  paper  and  Oriental 
rugs  and  mahogany  chairs  —  not  painted 
mahogany  which  made  us  sufficiently  happy 
last  year,  but  real.  It 's  very  gorgeous,  but 
I  don't  feel  as  though  I  belonged  in  it ;  I 'm 
nervous  all  the  time  for  fear  I  '11  get  an  ink 
spot  in  the  wrong  place. 

And,  Daddy,  I  found  your  letter  waiting 
for  me  —  pardon  —  I  mean  your  secre- 
tary's, 

196 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


Will  you  kindly  convey  to  me  a  compre- 
hensible reason  why  I  should  not  accept 
that  scholarship?  I  don't  understand  your 
objection  in  the  least.  But  anyway,  it 
won't  do  the  slightest  good  for  you  to  ob- 
ject, for  I  've  already  accepted  it  —  and 
I  am  not  going  to  change!  That  sounds 
a  little  impertinent,  but  I  don't  mean  it 
so. 

I  suppose  you  feel  that  when  you  set  out 
to  educate  me,  you 'd  like  to  finish  the  work, 
and  put  a  neat  period,  in  the  shape  of  a 
diploma,  at  the  end. 

But  look  at  it  just  a  second  from  my 
point  of  view.  I  shall  owe  my  education 
to  you  just  as  much  as  though  I  let  you  pay 
for  the  whole  of  it,  but  I  won't  be  quite 
so  much  indebted.  I  know  that  you  don't 
want  me  to  return  the  money,  but  neverthe- 
less, I  am  going  to  want  to  do  it,  if  I  possi- 
bly can ;  and  winning  this  scholarship  makes 
it  so  much  easier.  I  was  expecting  to  spend 
the  rest  of  my  life  in  paying  my  debts,  but 
197 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


now  I  shall  only  have  to  spend  one-half  of 
the  rest  of  it. 

I  hope  you  understand  my  position  and 
won't  be  cross.  The  allowance  I  shall  still 
most  gratefully  accept.  It  requires  an  al- 
lowance to  live  up  to  Julia  and  her  furni- 
ture! I  wish  that  she  had  been  reared  to 
simpler  tastes,  or  else  that  she  were  not  my 
room-mate. 

This  isn't  much  of  a  letter;  I  meant  to 
have  written  a  lot  —  but  I 've  been  hem- 
ming four  window  curtains  and  three  por- 
tieres (I'm  glad  you  can't  see  the  length 
of  the  stitches)  and  polishing  a  brass  desk 
set  with  tooth  powder  (very  uphill  work) 
and  sawing  off  picture  wire  with  manicure 
scissors,  and  unpacking  four  boxes  of 
books,  and  putting  away  two  trunkfuls  of 
clothes  (it  doesn't  seem  believable  that 
Jerusha  Abbott  owns  two  trunks  full  of 
clothes,  but  she  does!)  and  welcoming* 
back  fifty  dear  friends  in  between. 

Opening  day  is  a  joyous  occasion! 
198 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

Good  night,  Daddy  dear,  and  don't  be 
annoyed  because  your  chick  is  wanting  to 
scratch  for  herself.  She 's  growing  up 
into  an  awfully  energetic  little  hen  —  with 
a  very  determined  cluck  and  lots  of  beauti- 
ful feathers  (all  due  to  you). 

Affectionately, 


199 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


And  listen  —  I  have  a  further  thought 
Since  you  are  so  afraid  that  by  taking  this 
scholarship,  I  am  depriving  some  one  else 
of  an  education,  I  know  a  way  out.  You 
can  apply  the  money  that  you  would  have 
spent  for  me,  toward  educating  some  other 
little  girl  from  the  John  Grier  Home. 
Don't  you  think  that 's  a  nice  idea?  Only,. 
Daddy,  educate  the  new  girl  as  much  as  you 
choose,  but  please  don't  like  her  any  better 
than  me. 

I  trust  that  your  secretary  won't  be  hurt 
because  I  pay  so  little  attention  to  the  sug- 
gestions offered  in  his  letter,  but  I  can't  help- 
it  if  he  is.  He 's  a  spoiled  child,  Daddy.. 
I 've  meekly  given  in  to  his  whims  hereto- 
fore, but  this  time  I  intend  to  be  FIRM. 
Yours, 

With  a  Mind, 

Completely  and  Irrevocably  and 
World-without-End  Made-up. 

Jerusha  Abbott*. 


202 


! 

I 
i 


November  9th. 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

I  started  down  town  to-day  to  buy  a  bot- 
tle of  shoe  blacking  and  some  collars  and 
the  material  for  a  new  blouse  and  a  jar  of 
violet  cream  and  a  cake  of  Castile  soap  — 
all  very  necessary ;  I  could  n't  be  happy  an- 
other day  without  them  ^—  and  when  I  tried 
to  pay  the  car  fare,  I  found  that  I  had  left 
my  purse  in  the  pocket  of  my  other  coat. 
So  I  had  to  get  out  and  take  the  next  car, 
and  was  late  for  gymnasium. 

It  's  a  dreadful  thing  to  have  no  memory 
and  two  coats! 

Julia  Pendleton  has  invited  me  to  visit 
her  for  the  Christmas  holidays.  How  does 
that  strike  you,  Mr.  Smith  ?  Fancy  Jerusha 
Abbott,  of  the  John  Grier  Home,  sitting  at 
203 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


the  tables  of  the  rich.  I  don't  know  why 
Julia  wants  me  —  she  seems  to  be  getting 
quite  attached  to  me  of  late.  I  should,  to 
tell  the  truth,  very  much  prefer  going  to 
Sallie's*  but  Julia  asked  me  first,  so  if  I  go 
anywhere,  it  must  be  to  New  York  instead 
of  to  Worcester.  I 'm  rather  awed  at  the 
prospect  of  meeting  Pendletons  en  masse, 
and  also  I 'd  have  to  get  a  lot  of  new 
clothes  —  so,  Daddy  dear,  if  you  write  that 
you  would  prefer  having  me  remain  quietly 
at  college,  I  will  bow  to  your  wishes  with 
my  usual  sweet  docility. 

I 'm  engaged  at  odd  moments  with  the 
"  Life  and  Letters  of  Thomas  Huxley  " — 
it  makes  nice,  light  reading  to  pick  up  be- 
tween times.  Do  you  know  what  an  arch- 
seopteryx  is ?  It's  a  bird.  And  a  stere- 
ognathus  ?  I 'm  not  sure  myself  but  I 
think  it 's  a  missing  link,  like  a  bird  with 
teeth  or  a  lizard  with  wings.  No,  it  is  n't 
either;  I  Ve  just  looked  in  the  book.  It's 
a  mesozoic  mammal. 

204 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


He  (U_*  a, 

I  Ve  elected  economics  this  year  —  very 
illuminating  subject.  When  I  finish  that 
I'm  going  to  take  Charity  and  Reform; 
then,  Mr.  Trustee,  I  '11  know  just  how  an 
orphan  asylum  ought  to  be  run.  Don't  you 
think  I  'd  make  an  admirable  voter  if  I  had 
my  rights?  I  was  twenty-one  last  week. 
This  is  an  awfully  wasteful  country  to 
throw  away,  such  an  honest,  educated,  conr 
scientious,  intelligent  citizen  as  I  would  bec 
Yours  always, 

Judy. 


205 


December  7th, 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

Thank  you  for  permission  to  visit  Julia 
- —  I  take  it  that  silence  means  consent. 

Such  a  social  whirl  as  we 've  been  hav- 
ing! The  Founder's  dance  came  last  week 
—  this  was  the  first  year  that  any  of  us 
could  attend;  only  upper  classmen  being 
allowed. 

I  invited  Jimmie  McBride,  and  Sallie  in- 
vited his  room-mate  at  Princeton,  who  vis- 
ited them  last  summer  at  their  camp  —  an 
awfully  nice  man  with  red  hair  —  and 
Julia  invited  a  man  from  New  York,  not 
very  exciting,  but  socially  irreproachable. 
He  is  connected  with  the  De  la  Mater  Chi- 
chesterSc  Perhaps  that  means  something 
to  you?  It  doesn't  illuminate  me  to  any 
extent. 

206 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


However  —  our  guests  came  Friday  af- 
ternoon in  time  for  tea  in  the  senior  cor- 
ridor, and  then  dashed  down  to  the  hotel 
for  dinner.  The  hotel  was  so  full  that  they 
slept  in  rows  on  the  billiard  tables,  they  say. 
Jimmie  McBride  says  that  the  next  time  he 
is  bidden  to  a  social  event  in  this  college* 
he  is  going  to  bring  one  of  their  Adiron- 
dack tents  and  pitch  it  on  the  campus. 

At  seven-thirty  they  came  back  for  the 
President's  reception  and  dance.  Our  func- 
tions commence  early!  We  had  the  men's 
cards  all  made  out  ahead  of  time,  and  after 
every  dance,  we 'd  leave  them  in  groups 
under  the  letter  that  stood  for  their  names, 
so  that  they  could  be  readily  found  by  their 
next  partners.  Jimmie  McBride,  for  ex- 
ample, would  stand  patiently  under  "  M  " 
until  he  was  claimed.  (At  least,  he  ought 
to  have  stood  patiently,  but  he  kept  wander- 
ing off  and  getting  mixed  with  "  R's  and 
"S's"  and  all  sorts  of  letters.)  I  found 
him  a  very  difficult  guest;  he  was  sulky  be- 
207 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


cause  he  had  only  three  dances  with  me. 
He  said  he  was  bashful  about  dancing  with 
girls  he  did  n't  know ! 

The  next  morning  we  had  a  glee  club 
concert  —  and  who  do  you  think  wrote  the 
funny  new  song  composed  for  the  occasion  ? 
It's  the  truth.  She  did.  Oh,  I  tell  you, 
Daddy,  your  little  foundling  is  getting  to 
be  quite  a  prominent  person! 

Anyway,  our  gay  two  days  were  great 
fun,  and  I  think  the  men  enjoyed  it.  Some 
of  them  were  awfully  perturbed  at  first  at 
the  prospect  of  facing  one  thousand  girls; 
but  they  got  acclimated  very  quickly.  Our 
two  Princeton  men  had  a  beautiful  time  — 
at  least  they  politely  said  they  had,  and 
they  Ve  invited  us  to  their  dance  next 
spring.  We 've  accepted,  so  please  don't 
object,  Daddy  dear. 

Julia  and  Sallie  and  I  all  had  new 
dresses.  Do  you  want  to  hear  about  them? 
Julia's  was  cream  satin  and  gold  embroid- 
208 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


ery,  and  she  wore  purple  orchids.  It  was 
a  dream  and  came  from  Paris,  and  cost  a 
million  dollars. 

Sallie's  was  pale  blue  trimmed  with  Per- 
sian embroidery,  and  went  beautifully  with 
red  hair.  It  did  n't  cost  quite  a  million,  but 
was  just  as  effective  as  Julia's. 

Mine  was  pale  pink  crepe  de  chine 
trimmed  with  ecru  lace  and  rose  satin.  And 
I  carried  crimson  roses  which  J.  McB.  sent 
(Sallie  having  told  him  what  color  to  get). 
And  we  all  had  satin  slippers  and  silk  stock- 
ings and  chiffon  scarfs  to  match. 

You  must  be  deeply  impressed  by  these 
millinery  details! 

One  can't  help  thinking,  Daddy,  what  a 
colorless  life  a  man  is  forced  to  lead,  when 
one  reflects  that  chiffon  and  Venetian  point 
and  hand  embroidery  and  Irish  crochet  are 
to  him  mere  empty  words.  Whereas  a 
woman,  whether  she  is  interested  in  babies 
or  microbes  or  husbands  or  poetry  or  serv- 
J4  209 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


ants  or  parallelograms  or  gardens  or  Plato 
or  bridge  —  is  fundamentally  and  always 
interested  in  clothes. 

It 's  the  one  touch  of  nature  that  makes 
the  whole  world  kin.  (That  is  n't  original. 
I  got  it  out  of  one  of  Shakespeare's  plays.) 

However,  to  resume.  Do  you  want  me 
to  tell  you  a  secret  that  I 've  lately  discov- 
ered? And  will  you  promise  not  to  think 
me  vain?    Then  listen: 

I 'm  pretty. 

I  am,  really.  I  'd  be  an  awful  idiot  not 
to  know  it  with  three  looking-glasses  in  the 
room. 

A  Friend. 

P.  S.  This  is  one  of  those  wicked  anony- 
mous letters  you  read  about  in  novels. 


210 


December  20th. 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

I  Ve  just  a  moment,  because  I  must  at- 
tend two  classes,  pack  a  trunk  and  a  suit- 
case, and  catch  the  four-o'clock  train  — 
but  I  could  n't  go  without  sending  a  word 
to  let  you  know  how  much  I  appreciate  my 
Christmas  box. 

I  love  the  furs  and  the  necklace  and  the 
liberty  scarf  and  the  gloves  and  handker- 
chiefs and  books  and  purse  —  and  most  of 
all  I  love  you!  But  Daddy,  you  have  no 
business  to  spoil  me  this  way.  I 'm  only 
human  —  and  a  girl  at  that.  How  can  I 
keep  my  mind  sternly  fixed  on  a  studious 
career,  when  you  deflect  me  with  such 
worldly  frivolities? 

I  have  strong  suspicions  now  as  to  which 
one  of  the  John  Grier  Trustees  used  to  give 
211 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


the  Christmas  tree  and  the  Sunday  ice- 
cream. He  was  nameless,  but  by  his  works 
I  know  him!  You  deserve  to  be  happy  for 
all  the  good  things  you  do. 

Good-by,  and  a  very  merry  Christmas. 

Yours  always, 

Judy. 

R  S.  I  am  sending  a  slight  token,  too. 
Do  you  think  you  would  like  her  if  you 
knew  her? 


212 


January  nth. 

I  meant  to  write  to  you  from  the  city, 
Daddy,  but  New  York  is  an  engrossing 
place. 

I  had  an  interesting  — -  and  illuminating 
—  time,  but  I 'm  glad  I  don't  belong  in 
such  a  family!  I  should  truly  rather  have 
the  John  Grier  Home  for  a  background. 
Whatever  the  drawbacks  of  my  bringing 
up,  there  was  at  least  no  pretense  about  it. 
I  know  now  what  people  mean  when  they 
say  they  are  weighed  down  by  Things. 
The  material  atmosphere  of  that  house  was 
crushing ;  I  did  n't  draw  a  deep  breath 
until  I  was  on  an  express  train  coming 
back.  All  the  furniture  was  carved  and 
upholstered  and  gorgeous;  the  people  I  met 
were  beautifully  dressed  and  low-voiced 
and  well-bred,  but  it 's  the  truth,  Daddy,  I 
213 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


never  heard  one  word  of  real  talk  from  the 
time  we  arrived  until  we  left.  I  don't 
think  an  idea  ever  entered  the  front  door. 

Mrs.  Pendleton  never  thinks  of  anything 
but  jewels  and  dressmakers  and  social  en- 
gagements. She  did  seem  a  different  kind 
of  mother  from  Mrs.  McBride!  If  I  ever 
marry  and  have  a  family,  I 'm  going  to 
make  them  as  exactly  like  the  McBrides  as 
I  can.  Not  for  all  the  money  in  the  world 
would  I  ever  let  any  children  of  mine  develop 
into  Pendletons.  Maybe  it  is  n't  polite  to 
criticize  people  you've  been  visiting?  If  it 
is  n't,  please  excuse.  This  is  very  confi- 
dential, between  you  and  me. 

I  only  saw  Master  Jervie  once  when  he 
called  at  tea  time,  and  then  I  did  n't  have 
a  chance  to  speak  to  him  alone.  It  was  sort 
of  disappointing  after  our  nice  time  last 
summer.  I  don't  think  he  cares  much  for 
his  relatives  —  and  I  am  sure  they  don't 
care  much  for  him!  Julia's  mother  says 
he 's  unbalanced.  He 's  a  Socialist  —  ex- 
214 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


cept,  thank  Heaven,  he  does  n't  let  his  hair 
grow  and  wear  red  ties.  She  can't  imagine 
where  he  picked  up  his  queer  ideas;  the 
family  have  been  Church  of  England  for 
generations.  He  throws  away  his  money 
on  every  sort  of  crazy  reform,  instead  of 
spending  it  on  such  sensible  things  as  yachts 
and  automobiles  and  polo  ponies.  He  does 
buy  candy  with  it  though!  He  sent  Julia 
and  me  each  a  box  for  Christmas. 

You  know,  I  think  I  '11  be  a  Socialist, 
too.  You  wouldn't  mind,  would  you, 
Daddy?  They're  quite  different  from 
Anarchists;  they  don't  believe  in  blowing 
people  up.  Probably  I  am  one  by  rights; 
I  belong  to  the  proletariat.  I  haven't  de- 
termined yet  just  which  kind  I  am  going 
to  be.  I  will  look  into  the  subject  over 
Sunday,  and  declare  my  principles  in  my 
4  next. 

I 've  seen  loads  of  theaters  and  hotels 
and  beautiful  houses.    My  mind  is  a  con- 
fused jumble  of  onyx  and  gilding  and 
215 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


mosaic  floors  and  palms.  I 'm  still  pretty 
breathless  but  I  am  glad  to  get  back  to  col- 
lege and  my  books  —  I  believe  that  I  really 
am  a  student;  this  atmosphere  of  academic 
calm  I  find  more  bracing  than  New  York. 
College  is  a  very  satisfying  sort  of  life;  the 
books  and  study  and  regular  classes  keep 
you  alive  mentally,  and  then  when  your 
mind  gets  tired,  you  have  the  gymnasium 
and  outdoor  athletics,  and  always  plenty  of 
congenial  friends  who  are  thinking  about 
the  same  things  you  are.  We  spend  a 
whole  evening  in  nothing  but  talk  —  talk  — 
talk  —  and  go  to  bed  with  a  very  uplifted 
feeling,  as  though  we  had  settled  perma- 
nently some  pressing  world  problems. 
And  filling  in  every  crevice,  there  is  always 
such  a  lot  of  nonsense  —  just  silly  jokes 
about  the  little  things  that  come  up  —  but 
very  satisfying.  We  do  appreciate  our 
own  witticisms ! 

It  is  n't   the   great   big  pleasures  that 
count  the  most;  it's  making  a  great  deal 
216 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

out  of  the  little  ones  —  I  've  discovered  the 
true  secret  of  happiness,  Daddy,  and  that 
is  to  live  in  the  now.  Not  to  be  forever 
regretting  the  past,  or  anticipating  the 
future;  but  to  get  the  most  that  you  can 
out  of  this  very  instant.  It 's  like  farr  i- 
ing.  You  can  have  extensive  farming  and 
intensive  farming ;  well,  I  am  going  to  have 
intensive  living  after  this.  I 'm  going  to 
enjoy  every  second,  and  I 'm  going  to 
know  I 'm  enjoying  it  while  I 'm  enjoying 
it.  Most  people  don't  live;  they  just  race. 
They  are  trying  to  reach  some  goal  far 
away  on  the  horizon,  and  in  the  heat  of 
the  going  they  get  so  breathless  and  panting 
that  they  lose  all  sight  of  the  beautiful, 
tranquil  country  they  are  passing  through; 
and  then  the  first  thing  they  know,  they 
are  old  and  worn  out,  and  it  does  n't  make 
any  difference  whether  they  Ve  reached  the 
goal  or  not.  I 've  decided  to  sit  down  by 
the  way  and  pile  up  a  lot  of  little  happi- 
nesses, even  if  I  never  become  a  Great 
217 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


Author.  Did  you  ever  know  such  a 
philosopheress  as  I  am  developing  into? 

Yours  ever, 

Judy. 

P.  S.  It 's  raining  cats  and  dogs  to- 
ri ight.  Two  puppies  and  a  kitten  have  just 
landed  on  the  window-sill. 


218 


Dear  Comrade, 

Hooray !    I 'm  a  Fabian. 

That 's  a  Socialist  who 's  willing  to  wait. 
We  don't  want  the  social  revolution  to 
come  to-morrow  morning;  it  would  be  too 
upsetting.  We  want  it  to  come  very  grad- 
ually in  the  distant  future,  when  we  shall 
all  be  prepared  and  able  to  sustain  the 
shock. 

In  the  meantime  we  must  be  getting 
ready,  by  instituting  industrial,  educational 
and  orphan  asylum  reforms. 

Yours,  with  fraternal  love, 

Judy. 

Monday,  3d  hour. 


210 


February  nth. 

Dear  D.  L.  L., 

Don't  be  insulted  because  this  is  so 
short.  It  isn't  a  letter;  it's  just  a  line 
to  say  that  I 'm  going  to  write  a  letter 
pretty  soon  when  examinations  are  over. 
It  is  not  only  necessary  that  I  pass,  but  pass 
WELL.  I  have  a  scholarship  to  live  up 
to. 

Yours,  studying  hard, 

.     J.  A. 


220 


March  5th. 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

President  Cuyler  made  a  speech  this 
evening  about  the  modern  generation  being 
flippant  and  superficial.  He  says  that  we 
are  losing  the  old  ideals  of  earnest  en- 
deavor and  true  scholarship;  and  particu- 
larly is  this  falling-off  noticeable  in  our  dis- 
respectful attitude  toward  organized  author- 
ity. We  no  longer  pay  a  seemly  deference 
to  our  superiors. 

I  came  away  from  chapel  very  sober. 

Am  I  too  familiar,  Daddy?  Ought  I  to 
treat  you  with  more  dignity  and  aloofness? 
—  Yes,  I 'm  sure  I  ought.  I  '11  begin 
again. 

My  dear  Mr.  Smith, 

You  will  be  pleased  to  hear  that  I  passed 
successfully    my    mid-year  examinations, 
221 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


and  am  now  commencing  work  in  the  new 
semester.  I  am  leaving  chemistry  —  hav- 
ing completed  the  course  in  qualitative 
analysis  —  and  am  entering  upon  the  study 
of  biology.  I  approach  this  subject  with 
some  hesitation,  as  I  understand  that  we 
dissect  angleworms  and  frogs. 

An  extremely  interesting  and  valuable 
lecture  was  given  in  the  chapel  last  week 
upon  Roman  Remains  in  Southern  France. 
I  have  never  listened  to  a  more  illuminating 
exposition  of  the  subject. 

We  are  reading  Wordsworth's  "  Tin- 
turn  Abbey  "  in  connection  with  our  course 
in  English  Literature.  What  an  exquisite 
work  it  is,  and  how  adequately  it  embodies 
his  conception  of  Pantheism!  The  Ro- 
mantic movement  of  the  early  part  of  the 
last  century,  exemplified  in  the  works  of 
such  poets  as  Shelley,  Byron,  Keats,  and 
Wordsworth,  appeals  to  me  very  much 
more  than  the  Classical  period  that  preceded 
222 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


it.  Speaking  of  poetry,  have  you  ever 
read  that  charming  little  thing  of  Tenny-* 
son's  called  "  Locksley  Hall"? 

I  am  attending  gymnasium  very  regu^ 
larly  of  late.  A  proctor  system  has  been 
devised,  and  failure  to  comply  with  the 
rules  causes  a  great  deal  of  inconvenience. 
The  gymnasium  is  equipped  with  a  very 
beautiful  swimming  tank  of  cement  and 
marble,  the  gift  of  a  former  graduate. 
My  room-mate,  Miss  McBride,  has  given 
me  her  bathing-suit  (it  shrank  so  that  she 
can  no  longer  wear  it)  and  I  am  about  to 
begin  swimming  lessons. 

We  had  delicious  pink  ice-cream  for 
dessert  last  night.  Only  vegetable  dyes 
are  used  in  coloring  the  food.  The  college 
is  very  much  opposed,  both  from  esthetic 
and  hygienic  motives,  to  the  use  of  aniline 
dyes. 

The  weather  of  late  has  been  ideal  — 
bright   sunshine   and   clouds  interspersed 
223 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

with  a  few  welcome  snow-storms.  I  and 
my  companions  have  enjoyed  our  walks  to 
and  from  classes  —  particularly  from. 

Trusting,  my  dear  Mr.  Smith,  that  this 
will  find  you  in  your  usual  good  health, 
I  remain, 
Most  cordially  yours, 

Jerusha  ABBOTTc 


224 


April  24th. 

Dear  Daddy, 

Spring  has  come  again!  You  should 
see  how  lovely  the  campus  is.  I  think  you 
might  come  and  look  at  it  for  yourself. 
Master  Jervie  dropped  in  again  last  Fri- 
day —  but  he  chose  a  most  unpropitious 
time,  for  Sallie  and  Julia  and  I  were  just 
running  to  catch  a  train.  And  where  do 
you  think  we  were  going?  To  Princeton, 
to  attend  a  dance  and  a  ball  game,  if  you 
please!  I  didn't  ask  you  if  I  might  go, 
because  I  had  a  feeling  that  your  secretary 
would  say  no.  But  it  was  entirely  regular ; 
we  had  leave-of-absence  from  college,  and 
Mrs.  McBride  chaperoned  us.  We  had  a 
charming  time  —  but  I  shall  have  to  omit 
details ;  they  are  too  many  and  complicated. 
15  225 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


Saturday. 

Up  before  dawn!  The  night  watchman 
called  us  —  six  of  us  —  and  we  made 
coffee  in  a  chafing  dish  (you  never  saw  so 
many  grounds!)  and  walked  two  miles  tc 


the  top  of  One  Tree  Hill  to  see  the  sun 
rise.    We  had  to  scramble  up  the  last 
slope !    The  sun  almost  beat  us !    And  per- 
226 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


haps  you  think  we  did  n't  bring  back  ap- 
petites to  breakfast! 

Dear  me,  Daddy,  I  seem  to  have  a  very 
ejaculatory  style  to-day;  this  page  is  pep- 
pered with  exclamations. 

I  meant  to  have  written  a  lot  about  the 
budding  trees  and  the  new  cinder  path  in 
the  athletic  field,  and  the  awful  lesson  we 
have  in  biology  for  to-morrow,  and  the  new 
canoes  on  the  lake,  and  Catherine  Prentiss 
who  has  pneumonia,  and  Prexy's  Angora 


Kitten  that  strayed  from  home  and  has  been 
boarding  in  Fergussen  Hall  for  two  weeks 
227 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

until  a  chambermaid  reported  it,  and  about 
my  three  new  dresses  —  white  and  pink 
and  blue  polka  dots  with  a  hat  to  match 
—  but  I  am  too  sleepy.  I  am  always  mak- 
ing this  an  excuse,  am  I  not?  But  a  girl's 
college  is  a  busy  place  and  we  do  get  tired 
by  the  end  of  the  day!  Particularly  when 
the  day  begins  at  dawn. 

Affectionately, 

Judy, 


228 


May  15th. 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

Is  it  good  manners  when  you  get  into 
a  car  just  to  stare  straight  ahead  and  not 
see  anybody  else? 

A  very  beautiful  lady  in  a  very  beautiful 
velvet  dress  got  into  the  car  to-day,  and 
without  the  slightest  expression  sat  for 
fifteen  minutes  and  looked  at  a  sign  ad- 
vertising suspenders.  It  does  n't  seem 
polite  to  ignore  everybody  else  as  though 
you  were  the  only  important  person 
present.  Anyway,  you  miss  a  lot.  While 
she  was  absorbing  that  silly  sign,  I  was 
studying  a  whole  car  full  of  interesting 
human  beings. 

The  accompanying  illustration  is  hereby 
reproduced  for  the  first  time.  It  looks  like 
a  spider  on  the  end  of  a  string,  but  it  is  n't 
229 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

at  all;  it's  a  picture  of  me  learning  to 
swim  in  the  tank  in  the  gymnasium. 


The  instructor  hooks  a  rope  into  a  ring  in 
the  back  of  my  belt,  and  runs  it  through  a 
pulley  in  the  ceiling.  It  would  be  a  beau- 
tiful system  if  one  had  perfect  confidence 
in  the  probity  of  one's  instructor.  I  'm 
always  afraid,  though,  that  she  will  let 
the  rope  get  slack,  so  I  keep  one  anxious 
eye  on  her  and  swim  with  the  other,  and 
with  this  divided  interest  I  do  not  make 
the  progress  that  I  otherwise  might. 
230 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


Very  miscellaneous  weather  we  're  hav- 
ing of  late.  It  was  raining  when  I  com- 
menced and  now  the  sun  is  shining.  Sallie 
and  I  are  going  out  to  play  tennis  — 
thereby  gaining  exemption  from  Gym. 

A  week  later. 

I  should  have  finished  this  letter  long 
ago,  but  I  didn't.  You  don't  mind,  do 
you,  Daddy,  if  I'm  not  very  regular?  I 
really  do  love  to  write  to  you;  it  gives  me 
such  a  respectable  feeling  of  having  some 
family.  Would  you  like  me  to  tell  you 
something?  You  are  not  the  only  man  to 
whom  I  write  letters.  There  are  two 
others!  I  have  been  receiving  beautiful 
long  letters  this  winter  from  Master  Jervie 
(with  typewritten  envelopes  so  Julia  won't 
recognize  the  writing).  Did  you  ever 
hear  anything  so  shocking?  And  every 
week  or  so  a  very  scrawly  epistle,  usually 
on  yellow  tablet  paper,  arrives  from 
Princeton.  All  of  which  I  answer  with 
231 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


businesslike  promptness.  So  you  see  — 
I  am  not  so  different  from  other  girls  — 
I  get  mail,  too. 

Did  I  tell  you  that  I  have  been  elected 
a  member  of  the  Senior  Dramatic  Club? 
Very  recherche  organization.  Only  seven- 
ty-five members  out  of  one  thousand.  Do 
you  think  as  a  consistent  Socialist  that  I 
ought  to  belong? 

What  do  you  suppose  is  at  present  en- 
gaging my  attention  in  sociology?  I  am 
writing  (figures  vous!)  a  paper  on  the 
Care  of  Dependent  Children.  The  Pro- 
fessor shuffled  up  his  subjects  and  dealt 
them  out  promiscuously,  and  that  fell  to 
me.    Cest  drole  ga  n'est  pas? 

There  goes  the  gong  for  dinner.  I  '11 
mail  this  as  I  pass  the  chute. 

Affectionately, 


232 


June  4th. 

Dear  Daddy, 

Very  busy  time  —  commencement  in  ten 
days,  examinations  to-morrow;  lots  of 
studying,  lots  of  packing,  and  the  outdoors 
world  so  lovely  that  it  hurts  you  to  stay 
inside. 

But  never  mind,  vacation 's  coming. 
Julia  is  going  abroad  this  summer  —  it 
makes  the  fourth  time.  No  doubt  about 
it,  Daddy,  goods  are  not  distributed  evenly. 
Sallie,  as  usual,  goes  to  the  Adirondacks. 
And  what  do  you  think  I  am  going  to  do? 
You  may  have  three  guesses.  Lock  Wil- 
low? Wrong.  The  Adirondacks  with 
Sallie?  Wrong.  (I'll  never  attempt  that 
again;  I  was  discouraged  last  year.) 
Can't  you  guess  anything  else  ?  You  're 
not  very  inventive.  I  '11  tell  you,  Daddy, 
*33 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


if  you  '11  promise  not  to  make  a  lot  of  ob- 
jections. I  warn  your  secretary  ahead  of 
time  that  my  mind  is  made  up. 

I  am  going  to  spend  the  summer  at  the 
seaside  with  a  Mrs.  Charles  Paterson  and 
tutor  her  daughter  who  is  to  enter  college 
in  the  autumn.  I  met  her  through  the 
McBrides,  and  she  is  a  very  charming 
woman.  I  am  to  give  lessons  in  English 
and  Latin  to  the  younger  daughter,  too, 
but  I  shall  have  a  little  time  to  myself,  and 
I  shall  be  earning  fifty  dollars  a  month! 
Does  n't  that  impress  you  as  a  perfectly 
exorbitant  amount?  She  offered  it;  I 
should  have  blushed  to  ask  more  than 
twenty-five. 

I  finish  at  Magnolia  (that  Js  where  she 
lives)  the  first  of  September  and  shall 
probably  spend  the  remaining  three  weeks 
at  Lock  Willow  —  I  should  like  to  see  the 
Semples  again  and  all  the  friendly  animals. 

How  does  my  program  strike  you, 
Daddy?  I  am  getting  quite  independent, 
234 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


you  see.  You  have  put  me  on  my  feet  and 
I  think  I  can  almost  walk  alone  by  now. 

Princton  commencement  and  our  ex- 
aminations exactly  coincide  —  which  is  an 
awful  blow.  Sallie  and  I  did  so  want  to 
get  away  in  time  for  it,  but  of  course  that 
is  utterly  impossible. 

Good-by,  Daddy.  Have  a  nice  summer 
and  come  back  in  the  autumn  rested  and 
ready  for  another  year  of  work.  (That's 
what  you  ought  to  be  writing  to  me!)  I 
have  n't  an  idea  what  you  do  in  the  sum- 
mer, or  how  you  amuse  yourself.  I  can't 
visualize  your  surroundings.  Do  you  play 
golf  or  hunt  or  ride  horseback  or  just  sit 
in  the  sun  and  meditate? 

Anyway,  whatever  it  is,  have  a  good  time 
and  don't  forget  Judy. 


235 


June  Tenth, 

Dear  Daddy, 

This  is  the  hardest  letter  I  ever  wrote, 
but  I  have  decided  what  I  must  do,  and 
there  is  n't  going  to  be  any  turning  back. 
It  is  very  sweet  and  generous  and  dear  of 
you  to  wish-  to  send  me  to  Europe  this 
summer  —  for  the  moment  I  was  intoxi- 
cated by  the  idea ;  but  sober  second  thoughts 
said  no.  It  would  be  rather  illogical  of  me 
to  refuse  to  take  your  money  for  college, 
and  then  use  it  instead  just  for  amusement ! 
You  must  n't  get  me  used  to  too  many  lux- 
uries. One  does  n't  miss  what  one  has 
never  had;  but  it  is  awfully  hard  going 
without  things  after  one  has  commenced 
thinking  they  are  his  —  hers  (English 
language  needs  another  pronoun)  by 
natural  right.  Living  with  Sallie  and 
236 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


Julia  is  an  awful  strain  on  my  stoical 
philosophy.  They  have  both  had  things 
from  the  time  they  were  babies;  they  ac- 
cept happiness  as  a  matter  of  course.  The 
World,  they  think,  owes  them  everything 
they  want.  Maybe  the  World  does  —  in 
any  case,  it  seems  to  acknowledge  the  debt 
and  pay  up.  But  as  for  me,  it  owes  me 
nothing,  and  distinctly  told  me  so  in  the 
beginning.  I  have  no  right  to  borrow  on 
credit,  for  there  will  come  a  time  when  the 
World  will  repudiate  my  claim. 

I  seem  to  be  floundering  in  a  sea  of 
metaphor  —  but  I  hope  you  grasp  my 
meaning?  Anyway,  I  have  a  very  strong 
feeling  that  the  only  honest  thing  for  me 
to  do  is  to  teach  this  summer  and  begin  to 
support  myself. 

Magnolia, 
Four  days  later. 
I 'd  got  just  that  much  written,  when  — 
what  do  you  think  happened?    The  maid 
237 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


arrived  with  Master  Jervie's  card.  He  is 
going  abroad  too  this  summer;  not  with 
Julia  and  her  family  but  entirely  by  himself. 
I  told  him  that  you  had  invited  me  to  go 
with  a  lady  who  is  chaperoning  a  party 
of  girls.  He  knows  about  you,  Daddy. 
That  is,  he  knows  that  my  father  and 
mother  are  dead,  and  that  a  kind  gentleman 
is  sending  me  to  college ;  I  simply  did  n't 
have  the  courage  to  tell  him  about  the  John 
Grier  Home  and  all  the  rest.  He  thinks 
that  you  are  my  guardian  and  a  perfectly 
legitimate  old  family  friend.  I  have  never 
told  him  that  I  didn't  know  you  —  that 
would  seem  too  queer! 

Anyway,  he  insisted  on  my  going  to 
Europe.  He  said  that  it  was  a  necessary 
part  of  my  education  and  that  I  mustn't 
think  of  refusing.  Also,  that  he  would  be 
in  Paris  at  the  same  time,  and  that  we 
would  run  away  from  the  chaperon  occa- 
sionally and  have  dinner  together  at  nice, 
funny,  foreign  restaurants. 

238 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

Well,  Daddy,  it  did  appeal  to  me!  I 
almost  weakened;  if  he  hadn't  been  so 
dictatorial,  maybe  I  should  have  entirely 
weakened.  I  can  be  enticed  step  by  step, 
but  I  won't  be  forced.  He  said  I  was  a 
silly,  foolish,  irrational,  quixotic,  idiotic, 
stubborn  child  (those  are  a  few  of  his 
abusive  adjectives;  the  rest  escape  me)  and 
that  I  did  n't  know  what  was  good  for  me ; 
I  ought  to  let  older  people  judge.  We  al- 
most quarreled  —  I  am  not  sure  but  that 
we  entirely  did! 

In  any  case,  I  packed  my  trunk  fast  and 
came  up  here.  I  thought  I 'd  better  see  my 
bridges  in  flames  behind  me  before  I  fin- 
ished writing  to  you.  They  are  entirely 
reduced  to  ashes  now.  Here  I  am  at  Cliff 
Top  (the  name  of  Mrs.  Paterson's  cottage) 
with  my  trunk  unpacked  and  Florence  (the 
little  one)  already  struggling  with  first 
declension  nouns.  And  it  bids  fair  to  be 
a  struggle!  She  is  a  most  uncommonly 
spoiled  child;  I  shall  have  to  teach  her  first 
239 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


how  to  study  —  she  has  never  in  her  life 
concentrated  on  anything  more  difficult 
than  ice-cream  soda  water. 

We  use  a  quiet  corner  of  the  cliffs  for  a 
schoolroom. —  Mrs.  Paterson  wishes  me  to 
keep  them  out  of  doors  —  and  I  will  say  that 
/  find  it  difficult  to  concentrate  with  the  blue 
sea  before  me  and  ships  a-sailing  by!  And 
when  I  think  I  might  be  on  one,  sailing  off  to 
foreign  lands  —  but  I  won't  let  myself  think 
of  anything  but  Latin  Grammar. 

The  prepositions  a  or  ab,  absque,  coram,  cum, 
de,  e  or  ex,  prae,  pro,  sine,  tenus,  in,  subter,  sub 
and  super  govern  the  ablative. 

So  you  see,  Daddy,  I  am  already  plunged 
into  work  with  my  eyes  persistently  set 
against  temptation.  Don't  be  cross  with 
me,  please,  and  don't  think  that  I  do  not 
appreciate  your  kindness,  for  I  do  — 
always  —  always.  The  only  way  I  can 
ever  repay  you  is  by  turning  out  a  Very 
Useful  Citizen  (Are  women  citizens?  I 
240 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


don't  suppose  they  are).  Anyway,  a  Very 
Useful  Person.  And  when  you  look  at  me 
you  can  say,  "  I  gave  that  Very  Useful  Per- 
son to  the  world." 

That  sounds  well,  does  n't  it,  Daddy  ? 
But  I  don't  wish  to  mislead  you.  The 
feeling  often  comes  over  me  that  I  am  not 
at  all  remarkable;  it  is  fun  to  plan  a 
career,  but  in  all  probability,  I  shan't  turn 
out  a  bit  different  from  any  other  ordinary 
person.  I  may  end  by  marrying  an  under- 
taker and  being  an  inspiration  to  him  in  his 
work. 

Yours  ever, 

JUDYo 


241 


August  19th. 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

My  window  looks  out  on  the  loveliest 
landscape  —  ocean-scape  rather  —  nothing 
but  water  and  rocks. 

The  summer  goes.  I  spend  the  morning 
with  Latin  and  English  and  algebra  and  my 
two  stupid  girls.  I  don't  know  how  Marion 
is  ever  going  to  get  into  college,  or  stay  in 
after  she  gets  there.  And  as  for  Florence, 
she  is  hopeless  —  but  oh !  such  a  little 
beauty.  I  don't  suppose  it  matters  in  the 
least  whether  they  are  stupid  or  not  so  long 
as  they  are  pretty?  One  can't  help  think- 
ing though,  how  their  conversation  will  bore 
their  husbands,  unless  they  are  fortunate 
enough  to  obtain  stupid  husbands.  I  sup- 
pose that 's  quite  possible ;  the  world  seems 
242 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


to  be  filled  with  stupid  men ;  I 've  met  a  num- 
ber this  summer. 

In  the  afternoon  we  take  a  walk  on  the 
cliffs,  or  swim,  if  the  tide  is  right.  I  can 
swim  in  salt  water  with  the  utmost  ease  — 
you  see  my  education  is  already  being  put 
to  use ! 

A  letter  comes  from  Mr.  Jervis  Pendle- 
ton in  Paris,  rather  a  short,  concise  letter; 
I 'm  not  quite  forgiven  yet  for  refusing  to 
follow  his  advice.  However,  if  he  gets 
back  in  time,  he  will  see  me  for  a  few  days 
at  Lock  Willow  before  college  opens,  and  if 
I  am  very  nice  and  sweet  and  docile,  I  shall 
(I  am  led  to  infer)  be  received  into  favor 
again. 

Also  a  letter  from  Sallie.  She  wants  me 
to  come  to  their  camp  for  two  weeks  in 
September.  Must  I  ask  your  permission,  or 
have  n't  I  yet  arrived  at  the  place  where  I 
can  do  as  I  please  ?  Yes,  I  am  sure  I  have 
—  I 'm  a  Senior,  you  know.  Having 
worked  all  summer,  I  feel  like  taking  a  lit- 
243 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


tie  healthful  recreation;  I  want  to  see  the 
Adirondacks ;  I  want  to  see  Sallie;  I  want 
to  see  Sallie's  brother  —  he 's  going  to 
teach  me  to  canoe  —  and  (we  come  to  my 
chief  motive,  which  is  mean)  I  want  Master 
Jervie  to  arrive  at  Lock  Willow  and  find  me 
not  there. 

I  must  show  him  that  he  can't  dictate  to 
me.  No  one  can  dictate  to  me  but  you, 
Daddy  —  and  you  can't  always !  I 'm  off 
for  the  woods. 

Judy. 


244 


Camp  McBride, 

September  6th. 

Dear  Daddy, 

Your  letter  didn't  come  in  time  (I  am 
pleased  to  say).  If  you  wish  your  in- 
structions to  be  obeyed,  you  must  have 
your  secretary  transmit  them  in  less  than 
two  weeks.  As  you  observe,  I  am  here, 
and  have  been  for  five  days. 

The  woods  are  fine,  and  so  is  the  camp, 
and  so  is  the  weather,  and  so  are  the  Mc- 
Brides,  and  so  is  the  whole  world.  I 'm 
very  happy! 

There 's  Jimmie  calling  for  me  to  come 
canoeing.  Good-by  —  sorry  to  have  dis- 
obeyed, but  why  are  you  so  persistent  about 
not  wanting  me  to  play  a  little?  When 
I 've  worked  all  summer  I  deserve  two 
245 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

weeks.  You  are  awfully  dog-in-the-man- 
gerish. 

However  —  I  love  you  still,  Daddy,  in 
spite  of  all  your  faults. 

JUDYo 


246 


October  3rd 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

Back  at  college  and  a  Senior  —  also  ed- 
itor of  the  Monthly.  It  does  n't  seem  pos- 
sible, does  it,  that  so  sophisticated  a  per- 
son, just  four  years  ago,  was  an  inmate 
of  the  John  Grier  Home?  We  do  arrive 
fast  in  America ! 

What  do  you  think  of  this?  A  note 
from  Master  Jervie  directed  to  Lock 
Willow  and  forwarded  here.  He 's  sorry 
but  he  finds  that  he  can't  get  up  there  this 
autumn;  he  has  accepted  an  invitation  to 
go  yachting  with  some  friends.  Hopes 
I 've  had  a  nice  summer  and  am  enjoying 
the  country. 

And  he  knew  all  the  time  that  I  was  with 
the  McBrides,  for  Julia  told  him  so !  You 
247 


DADDY-LONGS-LEGS 


men  ought  to  leave  intrigue  to  women;  you 
have  n't  a  light  enough  touch. 

Julia  has  a  trunkful  of  the  most  ravish- 
ing new  clothes  —  an  evening  gown  of  rain- 
bow Liberty  crepe  that  would  be  fitting 
raiment  for  the  angels  in  Paradise.  And 
I  thought  that  my  own  clothes  this  year 
were  unprecedentedly  (is  there  such  a 
word?)  beautiful.  I  copied  Mrs.  Pater- 
son's  wardrobe  with  the  aid  of  a  cheap 
dressmaker,  and  though  the  gowns  did  n't 
turn  out  quite  twins  of  the  originals,  I  was 
entirely  happy  until  Julia  unpacked.  But 
now  —  I  live  to  see  Paris ! 

Dear  Daddy,  are  n't  you  glad  you  're  not 
a  girl?  I  suppose  you  think  that  the  fuss 
we  make  over  clothes  is  too  absolutely 
silly?  It  is.  No  doubt  about  it.  But  it 's 
entirely  your  fault. 

Did  you  ever  hear  about  the  learned  Herr 
Professor  who  regarded  unnecessary  adorn- 
ment with  contempt,  and  favored  sensible, 
utilitarian  clothes  for  women?  His  wife, 
248 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

who  was  an  obliging  creature,  adopted 
"  dress  reform."  And  what  do  you  think 
he  did  ?  He  eloped  with  a  chorus  girl. 

Yours  ever, 

Judy. 

P.  S.  The  chamber-maid  on  our  corridor 
wears  blue  checked  gingham  aprons.  I  am 
going  to  get  her  some  brown  ones  instead, 
and  sink  the  blue  ones  in  the  bottom  of  the 
lake.  I  have  a  reminiscent  chill  every  time 
I  look  at  them. 


249 


November  17th. 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

Such  a  blight  has  fallen  over  my  literary 
career.  I  don't  know  whether  to  tell  you 
or  not,  but  I  would  like  some  sympathy  — 
silent  sympathy,  please;  don't  reopen  the 
wound  by  referring  to  it  in  your  next  letter. 

I 've  been  writing  a  book,  all  last  winter 
in  the  evenings,  and  all  summer  when  I 
was  n't  teaching  Latin  to  my  two  stupid 
children.  I  just  finished  it  before  college 
opened  and  sent  it  to  a  publisher.  He  kept 
it  two  months,  and  I  was  certain  he  was 
going  to  take  it;  but  yesterday  morning  an 
express  parcel  came  (thirty  cents  due)  and 
there  it  was  back  again  with  a  letter  from 
the  publisher,  a  very  nice,  fatherly  letter 
—  but  frank!  He  said  he  saw  from  the 
address  that  I  was  still  in  college,  and  if  I 
250 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

would  accept  some  advice,  he  would  sug- 
gest that  I  put  all  of  my  energy  into  my 
lessons  and  wait  until  I  graduated  before 
beginning  to  write.  He  enclosed  his 
reader's  opinion.    Here  it  is: 

"  Plot  highly  improbable.  Characteriza- 
tion exaggerated.  Conversation  unnatural. 
A  good  deal  of  humor  but  not  always  in  the 
best  of  taste.  Tell  her  to  keep  on  trying, 
and  in  time  she  may  produce  a  real  book." 

Not  on  the  whole  flattering,  is  it,  Daddy  ? 
And  I  thought  I  was  making  a  notable  ad- 
dition to  American  literature,  I  did  truly. 
I  was  planning  to  surprise  you  by  writing 
a  great  novel  before  I  graduated.  I  col- 
lected the  xiiaterial  for  it  while  I  was  at 
Julia's  last  Christmas.  But  I  dare  say  the 
editor  is  right.  Probably  two  weeks  was 
not  enough  in  which  to  observe  the  manners 
and  customs  of  a  great  city. 

I  took  it  walking  with  me  yesterday 
afternoon,  and  when  I  came  to  the  gas 
house,  I  went  in  and  asked  the  engineer  if 
25 1 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


I  might  borrow  his  furnace.  He  politely 
opened  the  door,  and  with  my  own  hands 
I  chucked  it  in.  I  felt  as  though  I  had 
cremated  my  only  child ! 

I  went  to  bed  last  night  utterly  dejected; 
I  thought  I  was  never  going  to  amount  to 
anything,  and  that  you  had  thrown  away 
your  money  for  nothing.  But  what  do 
you  think  ?  I  woke  up  this  morning  with  a 
beautiful  new  plot  in  my  head,  and  I  Ve 
been  going  about  all  day  planning  my  char- 
acters, just  as  happy  as  I  could  be.  No 
one  can  ever  accuse  me  of  being  a  pessi- 
mist! If  I  had  a  husband  and  twelve  chil- 
dren swallowed  by  an  earthquake  one  day, 
I 'd  bob  up  smilingly  the  next  morning  and 
commence  to  look  for  another  set. 

Affectionately, 

Judy. 


252 


December  14th. 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

I  dreamed  the  funniest  dream  last  night. 
I  thought  I  went  into  a  book  store  and  the 
clerk  brought  me  a  new  book  named  "  The 
Life  and  Letters  of  Judy  Abbott."  I  could 
see  it  perfectly  plainly  —  red  cloth  binding 
with  a  picture  of  the  John  Grier  Home  on 
the  cover,  and  my  portrait  for  a  frontispiece 
with,  "Very  truly  yours,  Judy  Abbott," 
written  below.  But  just  as  I  was  turning 
to  the  end  to  read  the  inscription  on  my 
tombstone,  I  woke  up. .  It  was  very  annoy- 
ing !  I  almost  found  out  who  I  'm  going 
to  marry  and  when  I 'm  going  to  die. 

Don't  you  think  it  would  be  interesting 
if  you  really  could  read  the  story  of  your 
life —  written  perfectly  truthfully  by  an 
omniscient  author?  And  suppose  you 
253 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


could  only  read  it  on  this  condition:  that 
you  would  never  forget  it,  but  would  have 
to  go  through  life  knowing  ahead  of  time 
exactly  how  everything  you  did  would 
turn  out,  and  foreseeing  to  the  exact  hour 
the  time  when  you  would  die.  How  many 
people  do  you  suppose  would  have  the 
courage  to  read  it  then?  Or  how  many 
could  suppress  their  curiosity  sufficiently  to 
escape  from  reading  it,  even  at  the  price 
of  having  to  live  without  hope  and  without 
surprises  ? 

Life  is  monotonous  enough  at  best;  you 
have  to  eat  and  sleep  about  so  often.  But 
imagine  how  deadly  monotonous  it  would 
be  if  nothing  unexpected  could  happen  be- 
tween meals.  Mercy !  Daddy,  there *$  a 
blot,  but  I 'm  on  the  third  page  and  I  can't 
begin  a  new  sheet. 

I 'm  going  on  with  biology  again  this 
year  —  very  interesting  subject ;  we  're 
studying  the  alimentary  system  at  present. 
You  should  see  how  sweet  a  cross-section 
254 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


of  the  duodenum  of  a  cat  is  under  the  micro- 
scope. 

Also  we 've  arrived  at  philosophy  —  in- 
teresting but  evanescent.  I  prefer  biology 
where  you  can  pin  the  subject  under  discus- 
sion to  a  board.  There  's  another !  And 
another!  This  pen  is  weeping  copiously. 
Please  excuse  its  tears. 

Do  you  believe  in  free  will  ?  I  do  — 
unreservedly.  I  don't  agree  at  all  with  the 
philosophers  who  think  that  every  action  is 
the  absolutely  inevitable  and  automatic  re- 
sultant of  an  aggregation  of  remote 
causes.  That 's  the  most  immoral  doctrine 
I  ever  heard  —  nobody  would  be  to  blame 
for  anything.  If  a  man  believed  in  fatal- 
ism, he  would  naturally  just  sit  down  and 
say,  "  The  Lord's  will  be  done,"  and  con- 
tinue to  sit  until  he  fell  over  dead. 

I  believe  absolutely  in  my  own  free  will 
and  my  own  power  to  accomplish  —  and 
that  is  the  belief  that  moves  mountains. 
You  watch  me  become  a  great  author!  I 
255 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


have  four  chapters  of  my  new  book  finished 
and  five  more  drafted. 

This  is  a  very  abstruse  letter  —  does 
your  head  ache,  Daddy?  I  think  we'll 
stop  now  and  make  some  fudge.  I 'm 
sorry  I  can't  send  you  a  piece;  it  will  be 
unusually  good,  for  we  're  going  to  make 
it  with  real  cream  and  three  butter  balls. 
Yours  affectionately, 

Judy. 

P.  S.  We  're  having  fancy  dancing  in 
gymnasium  class.  You  can  see  by  the  ac- 
companying picture  how  much  we  look  like 
a  real  ballet.  The  one  on  the  end  accom- 
plishing a  graceful  pirouette  is  me  —  I 
mean  I. 


256 


December  26th. 

My  dear,  dear  Daddy, 

Have  n't  you  any  sense  ?  Don't  you 
know  that  you  must  n't  give  one  girl  sev- 
enteen Christmas  presents  ?  I 'm  a  Social- 
ist, please  remember;  do  you  wish  to  turn 
me  into  a  Plutocrat  ? 

Think  how  embarrassing  it  would  be  if 
we  should  ever  quarrel!  I  should  have  to 
engage  a  moving  van  to  return  your  gifts. 


I  am  sorry  that  the  necktie  I  sent  was\ 
so  wobbly;  I  knit  it  with  my  own  hands 
(as  you  doubtless  discovered  from  internal 
17  257 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

evidence).  You  will  have  to  wear  it  on 
cold  days  and  keep  your  coat  buttoned  up 
tight. 

Thank  you,  Daddy,  a  thousand  times.  I 
think  you  're  the  sweetest  man  that  ever 
lived  —  and  the  f oolishest ! 

Judy. 

Here's  a  four-leaf  clover  from  Camp 
McBride  to  bring  you  good  luck  for  the 
New  Year, 


I 
i 

i 


258 


January  9th. 

Do  you  wish  to  do  something,  Daddy, 
that  will  insure  your  eternal  salvation? 
There  is  a  family  here  who  are  in  awfully 
desperate  straits.  A  mother  and  father 
and  four  visible  children  —  the  two  older 
boys  have  disappeared  into  the  world  to 
make  their  fortune  and  have  not  sent  any 
of  it  back.  The  father  worked  in  a  glass 
factory  and  got  consumption  —  it 's  awfully 
unhealthy  work  —  and  now  has  been  sent 
away  to  a  hospital.  That  took  all  of  their 
savings,  and  the  support  of  the  family  falls 
upon  the  oldest  daughter  who  is  twenty- 
four.  She  dressmakes  for  $1.50  a  day 
(when  she  can  get  it)  and  embroiders  cen- 
terpieces in  the  evening.  The  mother  isn't 
very  strong  and  is  extremely  ineffectual  and 
259 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

pious.  She  sits  with  her  hands  folded,  a 
picture  of  patient  resignation,  while  the 
daughter  kills  herself  with  overwork  and  re- 
sponsibility and  worry ;  she  does  n't  see  how 
they  are  going  to  get  through  the  rest  of 
the  winter  —  and  I  don't  either.  One 
hundred  dollars  would  buy  some  coal  and 
some  shoes  for  the  three  children  so  that 
they  could  go  to  school,  and  give  a  little 
margin  so  that  she  needn't  worry  herself 
to  death  when  a  few  days  pass  and  she 
doesn't  get  work. 

You  are  the  richest  man  I  know.  Don't 
you  suppose  you  couid  spare  one  hundred 
dollars?  That  girl  deserves  help  a  lot 
more  than  I  ever  did.  I  would  n't  ask  it 
except  for  the  girl ;  I  don't  care  much  what 
happens  to  the  mother— she  is  such  a  jelly- 
fish. 

The  way  people  are  forever  rolling  their 
eyes  to  heaven  and  saying,  "  Perhaps  it's 
all  for  the  best,"  when  they  are  perfectly 
260 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


dead  sure  it 's  not,  makes  me  enraged. 
Humility  or  resignation  or  whatever  you 
choose  to  call  it,  is  simply  impotent  inertia. 
I 'm  for  a  more  militant  religion! 

We  are  getting  the  most  dreadful  lessons 
in  philosophy  —  all  of  Schopenhauer  for 
to-morrow.  The  professor  does  n't  seem 
to  realize  that  we  are  taking  any  other  sub- 
ject. He's  a  queer  old  duck;  he  goes 
about  with  his  head  in  the  clouds  and  blinks 
dazedly  when  occasionally  he  strikes  solid 
earth.  He  tries  to  lighten  his  lectures  with 
an  occasional  witticism  —  and  we  do  our 
best  to  smile,  but  I  assure  you  his  jokes 
are  no  laughing  matter.  He  spends  his 
entire  time  between  classes  in  trying  to 
figure  out  whether  matter  really  exists  or 
whether  he  only  thinks  it  exists. 

I'm  sure  my  sewing  girl  hasn't  any 
doubt  but  that  it  exists ! 

Where  do  you  think  my  new  novel  is? 
In  the  waste  basket.  I  can  see  myself  that 
261 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


it's  no  good  on  earth,  and  when  a  loving 
author  realizes  that,  what  would  be  the 
judgment  of  a  critical  public? 

Later. 

I  address  you,  Daddy,  from  a  bed  of 
pain.  For  two  days  I 've  been  laid  up  with 
swollen  tonsils;  I  can  just  swallow  hot 
milk,  and  that  is  all.  "  What  were  your 
parents  thinking  of  not  to  have  those  ton- 
sils out  when  you  were  a  baby  ?  "  the  doctor 
wished  to  know.  I  'm  sure  I  have  n't  an 
idea,  but  I  doubt  if  they  were  thinking 
much  about  me. 

Yours, 

J.  A. 

Next  morning. 

I  just  read  this  over  before  sealing  it. 
I  don't  know  why  I  cast  such  a  misty  at- 
mosphere over  life.    I  hasten  to  assure  you 
that  I  am  young  and  happy  and  exuberant; 
262 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

and  I  trust  you  are  the  same.  Youth  has 
nothing  to  do  with  birthdays,  only  with 
alivedness  of  spirit,  so  even  if  your  hair  is 
gray,  Daddy,  you  can  still  be  a  boy. 

Affectionately, 

Judy. 


263 


Jan.  1 2th. 

Dear  Mr.  Philanthropist, 

Your  check  for  my  family  came  yester- 
day. Thank  you  so  much!  I  cut  gym- 
nasium and  took  it  down  to  them  right  after 
luncheon,  and  you  should  have  seen  the 
girl's  face!  She  was  so  surprised  and 
happy  and  relieved  that  she  looked  almost 
young;  and  she's  only  twenty- four.  Isn't 
it  pitiful? 

Anyway,  she  feels  now  as  though  all 
the  good  things  were  coming  together.  She 
has  steady  work  ahead  for  two  months  — 
some  one 's  getting  married,  and  there 's  a 
trousseau  to  make. 

"  Thank  the  good  Lord ! "  cried  the 
mother,  when  she  grasped  the  fact  that 
that  small  piece  of  paper  was  one  hundred 
dollars. 

264 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

"  It  was  n't  the  good  Lord  at  all,"  said 
I,  "it  was  Daddy-Long-Legs."  (Mr. 
Smith,  I  called  you.) 

"  But  it  was  the  good  Lord  who  put  it 
an  his  mind/'  said  she. 

"  Not  at  all !  I  put  it  in  his  mind  my- 
self,"  said  L 

But  anyway,  Daddy,  I  trust  the  good 
Lord  will  reward  you  suitably.  You  de- 
serve ten  thousand  years  out  of  purgatory. 

Yours  most  gratefully, 

Judy  Abbott. 


265 


Feb.  15th. 

May  it  please  Your  Most  Excellent  Majesty: 

This  morning  I  did  eat  my  breakfast  upon 
a  cold  turkey  pie  and  a  goose,  and  I  did 
send  for  a  cup  of  tee  (a  china  drink)  of 
which  I  had  never  drank  before. 

Don't  be  nervous,  Daddy  —  I  have  n't 
lost  my  mind ;  I 'm  merely  quoting  Sarn'l 
Pepys.  We  're  reading  him  in  connection 
with  English  History,  original  sources. 
Sallie  and  Julia  and  I  converse  now  in  the 
language  of  1660.    Listen  to  this: 

"  I  went  to  Charing  Cross  to  see  Major 
Harrison  hanged,  drawn  and  quartered:  he 
looking  as  cheerful  as  any  man  could  do  in 
that  condition."  And  this :  "  Dined  with 
my  lady  who  is  in  handsome  mourning  for 
her  brother  who  died  yesterday  of  spotted 
fever." 

266 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


Seems  a  little  early  to  commence  enter- 
taining, doesn't  it?  A  friend  of  Pepys 
devised  a  very  cunning  manner  whereby 
the  king  might  pay  his  debts  out  of  the  sale 
to  poor  people  of  old  decayed  provisions. 
What  do  you,  a  reformer,  think  of  that? 
I  don't  believe  we  're  so  bad  to-day  as  the 
newspapers  make  out. 

Samuel  was  as  excited  about  his  clothes  as 
any  girl;  he  spent  five  times  as  much  on 
dress  as  his  wife  —  that  appears  to  have 
been  the  Golden  Age  of  husbands.  Is  n't 
this  a  touching  entry?  You  see  he  really 
was  honest.  "  To-day  came  home  my  fine 
Camlett  cloak  with  gold  buttons,  which  cost 
me  much  money,  and  I  pray  God  to  make  me 
able  to  pay  for  it." 

Excuse  me  for  being  so  full  of  Pepys; 
I 'm  writing  a  special  topic  on  him. 

What  do  you  think,  Daddy?  The  Self- 
Government  Association  has  abolished  the 
ten-o'clock  rule.  We  can  keep  our  lights 
all  night  if  we  choose,  the  only  requirement 
267 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


being  that  we  do  not  disturb  others  —  we 
are  not  supposed  to  entertain  on  a  large 
scale.  The  result  is  a  beautiful  commentary 
on  human  nature.  Now  that  we  may  stay 
up  as  long  as  we  choose,  we  no  longer 
choose.  Our  heads  begin  to  nod  at  nine 
o'clock,  and  by  nine-thirty  the  pen  drops 
from  our  nerveless  grasp.  It  's  nine-thirty 
now.    Good  night. 

Sunday. 

Just  back  from  church  —  preacher  from 
Georgia.  We  must  take  care,  he  says,  not 
to  develop  our  intellects  at  the  expense  of 
our  emotional  natures  —  but  methought  it 
was  a  poor,  dry  sermon  (Pepys  again).  It 
does  n't  matter  what  part  of  the  United 
States  or  Canada  they  come  from,  or  what 
denomination  they  are,  we  always  get  the 
same  sermon.  Why  on  earth  don't  they 
\  go  to  men's  colleges  and  urge  the  students 
not  to  allow  their  manly  natures  to  be 
crushed  out  by  too  much  mental  application  ? 
268 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


It 's  a  beautiful  day  —  frozen  and  icy  and 
clear.  As  soon  as  dinner  is  over,  Sallie  and 
Julia  and  Marty  Keene  and  Eleanor  Pratt 
(friends  of  mine,  but  you  don't  know  them) 
and  I  are  going  to  put  on  short  skirts  and 
walk  'cross  country  to  Crystal  Spring  Farm 
and  have  a  fried  chicken  and  waffle  supper, 
and  then  have  Mr.  Crystal  Spring  drive  us 
home  in  his  buckboard.  We  are  supposed 
to  be  inside  the  campus  at  seven,  but  we  are 
going  to  stretch  a  point  to-night  and  make 
it  eight. 

Farewell,  kind  Sir. 

I  have  the  honour  of  subscribing  myself, 
Your  most  loyall,  dutifull,  faithfull 
and  obedient  servant, 

J.  Abbott. 


269 


March  l  itth 

Dear  Mr.  Trustee, 

To-morrow  is  the  first  Wednesday  in  the 
month  —  a  weary  day  for  the  John  Grier 
Home.  How  relieved  they  '11  be  when  five 
o'clock  comes  and  you  pat  them  on  the  head 
and  take  yourselves  off!  Did  you  (individ- 
ually) ever  pat  me  on  the  head,  Daddy?  I 
don't  believe  so  —  my  memory  seems  to  be 
concerned  only  with  fat  Trustees. 

Give  the  Home  my  love,  please  —  my 
truly  love.  I  have  quite  a  feeling  of  ten- 
derness for  it  as  I  look  back  through  a  haze 
of  four  years.  When  I  first  came  to  college 
I  felt  quite  resentful  because  I  'd  been  robbed 
of  the  normal  kind  of  childhood  that  the 
other  girls  had  had;  but  now,  I  don't  feel 
that  way  in  the  least.  I  regard  it  as  a  very 
unusual  adventure.  It  gives  me  a  sort  of 
270 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


vantage  point  from  which  to  stand  aside  and 
look  at  life.  Emerging  full  grown,  I  get  a 
perspective  on  the  world,  that  other  people 
who  have  been  brought  up  in  the  thick  of 
things,  entirely  lack. 

I  know  lots  of  girls  (Julia,  for  instance) 
who  never  know  that  they  are  happy.  They 
are  so  accustomed  to  the  feeling  that  their 
senses  are  deadened  to  it,  but  as  for  me  — 
I  am  perfectly  sure  every  moment  of  my 
life  that  I  am  happy.  And  I 'm  going  to 
keep  on  being,  no  matter  what  unpleasant 
things  turn  up.  I 'm  going  to  regard  them 
(even  toothaches)  as  interesting  experi- 
ences, and  be  glad  to  know  what  they  feel 
like.  "  Whatever  sky 's  above  me,  I  've  a 
heart  for  any  fate." 

However,  Daddy,  don't  take  this  new  af- 
fection for  the  J.  G.  H.  too  literally.  If  I 
have  five  children,  like  Rousseau,  I  shan't 
leave  them  on  the  steps  of  a  foundling  asy-  j 
lum  in  order  to  insure  their  being  brought 
up  simply. 

271 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


Give  my  kindest  regards  to  Mrs.  Lippett 
(that,  I  think,  is  truthful;  love  would  be  a 
little  strong)  and  don't  forget  to  tell  her 
what  a  beautiful  nature  I  've  developed. 

Affectionately, 

Judy. 


272 


Lock  Willow, 

April  4th. 

Dear  Daddy, 

Do  you  observe  the  postmark?  Sallie 
and  I  are  embellishing  Lock  Willow  with 
our  presence  during  the  Easter  vacation. 
We  decided  that  the  best  thing  we  could  do 
with  our  ten  days  was  to  come  where  it  is 
quiet.  Our  nerves  had  got  to  the  point 
where  they  would  n't  stand  another  meal  in 
Fergussen.  Dining  in  a  room  with  four 
hundred  girls  is  an  ordeal  when  you  are 
tired.  There  is  so  much  noise  that  you 
can't  hear  the  girls  across  the  table  speak 
unless  they  make  their  hands  into  a  mega- 
phone and  shout.    That  is  the  truth. 

We  are  tramping  over  the  hills  and  read- 
ing and  writing,  and  having  a  nice,  restful 
18  273 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

time.  We  climbed  to  the  top  of  "  Sky  Hill  " 
this  morning  where  Master  Jervie  and  I 
once  cooked  supper  —  it  does  n't  seem  pos- 
sible that  it  was  nearly  two  years  ago.  I 
could  still  see  the  place  where  the  smoke  of 
our  fire  blackened  the  rock.  It  is  funny  how 
certain  places  get  connected  with  certain  peo- 
ple, and  you  never  go  back  without  think- 
ing of  them.  I  was  quite  lonely  without 
him  —  for  two  minutes. 

What  do  you  think  is  my  latest  activity, 
Daddy?  You  will  begin  to  believe  that  I 
am  incorrigible  —  I  am  writing  a  book.  I 
started  it  three  weeks  ago  and  am  eating  it 
up  in  chunks.  I  Ve  caught  the  secret.  Mas- 
ter Jervie  and  that  editor  man  were  right; 
you  are  most  convincing  when  you  write 
about  the  things  you  know.  And  this  time 
it  is  about  something  that  I  do  know  —  ex- 
haustively. Guess  where  it 's  laid  ?  In  the 
John  Grier  Home !  And  it 's  good,  Daddy, 
I  actually  believe  it  is  —  just  about  the  tiny 
little  things  that  happened  every  day.  I 'm 
274 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


a  realist  now.  I  Ve  abandoned  romanti- 
cism ;  I  shall  go  back  to  it  later  though,  when 
my  own  adventurous  future  begins. 

This  new  book  is  going  to  get  itself  fin- 
ished—  and  published!  You  see  if  it 
does  n't  If  you  just  want  a  thing  hard 
enough  and  keep  on  trying,  you  do  get  it  in 
the  end.  I 've  been  trying  for  four  years 
to  get  a  letter  from  you  —  and  I  have  n't 
given  up  hope  yet. 

Good-by,  Daddy  dear, 

(I  like  to  call  you  Daddy  dear;  it's  so 
alliterative. ) 

Affectionately, 

Judy. 

P.  S.  I  forgot  to  tell  you  the  farm  news, 
but  it 's  very  distressing.  Skip  this  post- 
script if  you  don't  want  your  sensibilities  all 
wrought  up. 

Poor  old  Grove  is  dead.  He  got  so  he 
could  n't  chew  and  they  had  to  shoot 
him. 

275 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


Nine  chickens  were  killed  by  a  weasel  or 
a  skunk  or  a  rat  last  week. 

One  of  the  cows  is  sick,  and  we  had  to 
have  the  veterinary  surgeon  out  from  Bon- 
nyrigg Four  Corners.  Amasai  stayed  up 
all  night  to  give  her  linseed  oil  and  whisky. 
But  we  have  an  awful  suspicion  that  the 
poor  sick  cow  got  nothing  but  linseed  oil. 

Sentimental  Tommy  (the  tortoise-shell 
cat)  has  disappeared;  we  are  afraid  he  has 
been  caught  in  a  trap. 

There  are  lots  of  troubles  in  the  world! 


'276 


May  17th. 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

This  is  going  to  be  extremely  short  be- 
cause my  shoulder  aches  at  the  sight  of  a 
pen.  Lecture  notes  all  day,  immortal  novel 
all  evening  makes  too  much  writing. 

Commencement  three  weeks  from  next 
Wednesday.  I  think  you  might  come  and 
make  my  acquaintance  —  I  shall  hate  you  if 
you  don't !  Julia 's  inviting  Master  Jervie, 
he  being  her  family,  and  Sallie 's  inviting 
Jimmie  McB.,  he  being  her  family,  but  who 
is  there  for  me  to  invite  ?  Just  you  and  Mrs. 
Lippett,  and  I  don't  want  her.    Please  come. 

Yours,  with  love  and  writer's  cramp. 

Judy. 


5277 


Lock  Willow. 

June  19th. 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

I 'm  educated !  My  diploma  is  in  the  bot- 
tom bureau  drawer  with  my  two  best  dresses. 
Commencement  was  as  usual,  with  a  few 
showers  at  vital  moments.  Thank  you  for 
your  rosebuds.  They  were  lovely.  Mas- 
ter Jervie  and  Master  Jimmie  both  gave  me 
roses,  too,  but  I  left  theirs  in  the  bath  tub 
and  carried  yours  in  the  class  procession. 

Here  I  am  at  Lock  Willow  for  the  sum- 
mer —  forever  maybe.  The  board  is  cheap ; 
the  surroundings  quiet  and  conducive  to  a 
literary  life.  What  more  does  a  struggling 
author  wish?  I  am  mad  about  my  book. 
I  think  of  it  every  waking  moment,  and 
dream  of  it  at  night.  All  I  want  is  peace 
278 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


and  quiet  and  lots  of  time  to  work  (inter- 
spersed with  nourishing  meals). 

Master  Jervie  is  coming  up  for  a  week 
or  so  in  August,  and  Jimmie  McBride  is 
going  to  drop  in  sometime  through  the  sum- 
mer. He 's  connected  with  a  bond  house 
now,  and  goes  about  the  country  selling 
bonds  to  banks.  He 's  going  to  combine  the 
u  Farmers'  National  "  at  the  Corners  and  me 
on  the  same  trip. 

You  see  that  Lock  Willow  is  n't  entirely 
lacking  in  society.  I 'd  be  expecting  to  have 
you  come  motoring  through  —  only  I  know 
now  that  that  is  hopeless.  When  you 
would  n't  come  to  my  commencement,  I  tore 
you  from  my  heart  and  buried  you  forever. 

Judy  Abbott,  A.B. 


279 


July  24th. 

Dearest  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

Is  n't  it  fun  to  work  —  or  don't  you  ever 
do  it  ?  It 's  especially  fun  when  your  kind 
of  work  is  the  thing  you 'd  rather  do  more 
than  anything  else  in  the  world.  I 've  been 
writing  as  fast  as  my  pen  would  go  every 
day  this  summer,  and  my  only  quarrel  with 
life  is  that  the  days  are  n't  long  enough  to 
write  all  the  beautiful  and  valuable  and  en- 
tertaining thoughts  I 'm  thinking. 

I  've  finished  the  second  draft  of  my  book 
and  am  going  to  begin  the  third  to-morrow 
morning  at  half-past  seven.  It 's  the  sweet- 
est book  you  ever  saw  —  it  is,  truly.  I  think 
of  nothing  else.  I  can  barely  wait  in  the 
morning  to  dress  and  eat  before  beginning; 
then  I  write  and  write  and  write  till  sud- 
denly I 'm  so  tired  that  I  'm  limp  all  over. 
280 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


Then  I  go  out  with  Colin  (the  new  sheep 
dog)  and  romp  through  the  fields  and  get  a 
fresh  supply  of  ideas  for  the  next  day.  It  ;s 
the  most  beautiful  book  you  ever  saw  — 
Oh,  pardon  —  I  said  that  before. 

You  don't  think  vme  conceited,  do  you, 
Daddy  dear? 

I 'm  not,  really,  only  just  now  I 'm  in  the 
enthusiastic  stage.  Maybe  later  on  I  '11  get 
cold  and  critical  and  sniffy.  No,  I  'm  sure 
I  won't !  This  time  I 've  written  a  real 
book.    Just  wait  till  you  see  it. 

I  '11  try  for  a  minute  to  talk  about  some- 
thing else.  I  never  told  you,  did  I,  that 
Amasai  and  Carry  got  married  last  May? 
They  are  still  working  here,  but  so  far  as  I 
can  see  it  has  spoiled  them  both.  She  used 
just  to  laugh  when  he  tramped  in  mud  or 
dropped  ashes  on  the  floor,  but  now  —  you 
should  hear  her  scold !  And  she  does  n't 
curl  her  hair  any  longer.  Amasai,  who  used 
to  be  so  obliging  about  beating  rugs  and 
carrying  wood,  grumbles  if  you  suggest  such 
281 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


a  thing.  Also  his  neckties  are  quite  dingy 
—  black  and  brown,  where  they  used  to  be 
scarlet  and  purple.  I ' ve  determined  never 
to  marry.  It 's  a  deteriorating  process,  evi- 
dently. 

There  is  n't  much  of  any  farm  news.  The 
animals  are  all  in  the  best  of  health.  The 
pigs  are  unusually  fat,  the  cows  seem  con- 
tented and  the  hens  are  laying  well.  Are 
you  interested  in  poultry?  If  so,  let  me 
recommend  that  invaluable  little  work,  "  200 
Eggs  per  Hen  per  Year."  I  am  thinking  of 
starting  an  incubator  next  spring  and  raising 
broilers.  You  see  I 'm  settled  at  Lock  Wil- 
low permanently.  I  have  decided  to  stay 
until  I 've  written  114  novels  like  Anthony 
Trollope's  mother.  Then  I  shall  have 
completed  my  life  work  and  can  retire  and 
travel. 

Mr.  James  McBride  spent  last  Sunday 
with  us.    Fried  chicken  and  ice-cream  for, 
dinner,  both  of  which  he  appeared  to  appre- 
282 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

ciate.  I  was  awfully  glad  to  see  him;  he 
brought  a  momentary  reminder  that  the 
world  at  large  exists.  Poor  Jimmie  is  hav- 
ing a  hard  time  peddling  his  bonds.  The 
Farmers'  National  at  the  Corners  would  n't 
have  anything  to  do  with  them  in  spite  of 
the  fact  that  they  pay  six  per  cent,  interest 
and  sometimes  seven.  I  think  he  '11  end  by 
going  home  to  Worcester  and  taking  a  job 
in  his  father's  factory.  He 's  too  open  and 
confiding  and  kind-hearted  ever  to  make  a 
successful  financier.  But  to  be  the  manager 
of  a  flourishing  overall  factory  is  a  very  de- 
sirable position,  don't  you  think  ?  Just  now 
he  turns  up  his  nose  at  overalls,  but  he  '11 
come  to  them. 

I  hope  you  appreciate  the  fact  that  this 
is  a  long  letter  from  a  person  with  writer's 
cramp.  But  I  still  love  you,  Daddy  dear, 
and  I 'm  very  happy.  With  beautiful 
scenery  all  about,  and  lots  to  eat  and  a  com- 
fortable four-post  bed  and  a  ream  of  blank 
283 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


paper  and  a  pint  of  ink  —  what  more  does 
one  want  in  the  world  ? 

Yours,  as  always, 

Judy. 

P.  So  The  postman  arrives  with  some 
more  news.  We  are  to  expect  Master  Jervie 
on  Friday  next  to  spend  a  week.  That 's  a 
very  pleasant  prospect  —  only  I  am  afraid 
my  poor  book  will  suffer.  Master  Jervie 
is  very  demanding. 


284 


August  27th. 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

Where  are  you,  I  wonder  ? 

I  never  know  what  part  of  the  world  you 
are  in,  but  I  hope  you  're  not  in  New  York 
during  this  awful  weather.  I  hope  you  're 
on  a  mountain  peak  (but  not  in  Switzerland; 
somewhere  nearer)  looking  at  the  snow  and 
thinking  about  me.  Please  be  thinking 
about  me.  I 'm  quite  lonely  and  I  want  to 
be  thought  about.  Oh,  Daddy,  I  wish  I 
knew  you!  Then  when  we  were  unhappy 
we  could  cheer  each  other  up. 

I  don't  think  I  can  stand  much  more  of 
Lock  Willow.  I 'm  thinking  of  moving. 
Sallie  is  going  to  do  settlement  work  in  Bos- 
ton next  winter.  Don't  you  think  it  would 
be  nice  for  me  to  go  with  her,  then  we  could 
have  a  studio  together  ?  I  could  write  while 
285 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


she  settled  and  we  could  be  together  in  the 
evenings.  Evenings  are  very  long  when 
there 's  no  one  but  the  Semples  and  Car- 
rie and  Amasai  to  talk  to.  I  know  ahead 
of  time  that  you  won't  like  my  studio  idea. 
I  can  read  your  secretary's  letter  now : 

"  Miss  Jernsha  Abbott. 
6  Dear  Madam, 
"  Mr.  Smith  prefers  that  you  remain  at 
Lock  Willow. 

"  Yours  truly, 
"  Elmer  H.  Griggs." 

I  hate  your  secretary.  I  am  certain  that 
a  man  named  Elmer  H.  Griggs  must  be 
horrid.  But  truly,  Daddy,  I  think  I  shall 
have  to  go  to  Boston.  I  can't  stay  here. 
If  something  does  n't  happen  soon,  I  shall 
throw  myself  into  the  silo  pit  out  of  sheer 
desperation. 

Mercy!  but  it's  hot.  All  the  grass  is 
286 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

burnt  up  and  the  brooks  are  dry  and  the 
roads  are  dusty.  It  has  n't  rained  for 
weeks  and  weeks. 

This  letter  sounds  as  though  I  had  hydro- 
phobia, but  I  have  n't.  I  just  want  some 
family. 

Good-by,  my  dearest  Daddy. 

I  wish  I  knew  you. 

Judy. 


287 


Lock  Willow, 

September  19th. 

Dear  Daddy, 

Something  has  happened  and  I  need  ad- 
vice. I  need  it  from  you,  and  from  nobody 
else  in  the  world.  Would  n't  it  be  possible 
for  me  to  see  you?  It 's  so  much  easier  to 
talk  than  to  write ;  and  I 'm  afraid  your  sec- 
retary might  open  the  letter. 

Judy. 

P.  S.    I 'm  very  unhappy. 


288 


JLock  Willow, 

October  3d. 

Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs, 

Your  note  written  in  your  own  hand  — 
and  a  pretty  wobbly  hand!  —  came  this 
morning.  I  am  so  sorry  that  you  have  been 
ill ;  I  would  n't  have  bothered  you  with  my 
affairs  if  I  had  known.  Yes,  I  will  tell  you 
the  trouble,  but  it 's  sort  of  complicated  to 
write,  and  very  private.  Please  don't  keep 
this  letter,  but  burn  it. 

Before  I  begin  —  here 's  a  check  for  one 
thousand  dollars.  It  seems  funny,  does  n't 
it,  for  me  to  be  sending  a  check  to  you? 
Where  do  you  think  I  got  it  ? 

I 've  sold  my  story,  Daddy.  It 's  going 
to  be  published  serially  in  seven  parts,  and 
then  in  a  book !  You  might  think  1 'd  be 
J*  289 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


wild  with  joy,  but  I 'm  not.  I 'm  entirely 
apathetic.  Of  course  I 'm  glad  to  begin  pay- 
ing you  —  I  owe  you  over  two  thousand 
more.  It 's  coming  in  instalments.  Now 
don't  be  horrid,  please,  about  taking  it,  be- 
cause it  makes  me  happy  to  return  it.  I  owe 
you  a  great  deal  more  than  the  mere  money, 
and  the  rest  I  will  continue  to  pay  all  my 
life  in  gratitude  and  affection. 

And  now,  Daddy,  about  the  other  thing; 
please  give  me  your  most  worldly  advice, 
whether  you  think  I  '11  like  it  or  not. 

You  know  that  I  !ve  always  had  a  very 
special  feeling  toward  you;  you  sort  of  rep- 
resented my  whole  family;  but  you  wont 
mind,  will  you,  if  I  tell  you  that  I  have  a 
very  much  more  special  feeling  for  another 
man  ?  You  can  probably  guess  without 
much  trouble  who  he  is.  I  suspect  that  my 
letters  have  been  very  full  of  Master  Jervie 
for  a  very  long  time. 

I  wish  I  could  make  you  understand  what 
he  is  like  and  how  entirely  companionable 
290 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


we  are.  We  think  the  same  about  every- 
thing—  I  am  afraid  I  have  a  tendency  to 
make  over  my  ideas  to  match  his !  But  he 
is  almost  always  right;  he  ought  to  be,  you 
know,  for  he  has  fourteen  years'  start  of 
me.  In  other  ways,  though,  he 's  just  an 
overgrown  boy,  and  he  does  need  looking 
after  —  he  hasn't  any  sense  about  wearing 
rubbers  when  it  rains.  He  and  I  always 
think  the  same  things  are  funny,  and  that 
is  such  a  lot;  it's  dreadful  when  two 
people's  senses  of  humor  are  antagonistic. 
I  don't  believe  there 's  any  bridging  that 
gulf! 

And  he  is  —  Oh,  well !  He  is  just  him- 
self, and  I  miss  him,  and  miss  him,  and 
miss  him.  The  whole  world  seems  empty 
and  aching.  I  hate  the  moonlight  because 
it 's  beautiful  and  he  is  n't  here  to  see  it  with 
me.  But  maybe  you 've  loved  somebody, 
too,  and  you  know?  If  you  have,  I  don't 
need  to  explain;  if  you  haven't,  I  can't  ex- 
plain. 

291 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

Anyway,  that 's  the  way  I  feel  —  and  I  Ve 
refused  to  marry  him. 

I  did  n't  tell  him  why ;  I  was  just  dumb 
and  miserable.  I  could  n't  think  of  anything 
to  say.  And  now  he  has  gone  away  imag- 
ining that  I  want  to  marry  Jimmie  McBride 
—  I  don't  in  the  least,  I  would  n't  think  of 
marrying  Jimmie ;  he  is  n't  grown  up  enough. 
But  Master  Jervie  and  I  got  into  a  dreadful 
muddle  of  misunderstanding,  and  we  both 
hurt  each  other's  feelings.  The  reason  I 
sent  him  away  was  not  because  I  did  n't  care 
for  him,  but  because  I  cared  for  him  so 
much.  I  was  afraid  he  would  regret  it  in 
the  future  —  and  I  could  n't  stand  that !  It 
did  n't  seem  right  for  a  person  of  my  lack 
of  antecedents  to  marry  into  any  such  fam- 
ily as  his.  I  never  told  him  about  the  or- 
phan asylum,  and  I  hated  to  explain  that  I 
did  n't  know  who  I  was.  I  may  be  dreadful, 
you  know.  And  las  family  are  proud  — 
and  I 'm  proud,  too ! 

Also,  I  felt  sort  of  bound  to  you.  After 
292 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


having  been  educated  to  be  a  writer,  I  must 
at  least  try  to  be  one;  it  would  scarcely  be 
?  fair  to  accept  your  education  and  then  go 
off  and  not  use  it.  But  now  that  I  am 
going  to  be  able  to  pay  back  the  money,  I 
feel  that  I  have  partially  discharged  that 
debt  —  besides,  I  suppose  I  could  keep  on 
being  a  writer  even  if  I  did  marry.  The 
two  professions  are  not  necessarily  exclu- 
sive. 

I  Ve  been  thinking  very  hard  about  it. 
Of  course  he  is  a  Socialist,  and  he  has  un- 
conventional ideas ;  maybe  he  would  n't  mind 
marrying  into  the  proletariat  so  much  as 
some  men  might.  Perhaps  when  two  peo- 
ple are  exactly  in  accord,  and  always  happy 
when  together  and  lonely  when  ap&rt,  they 
ought  not  to  let  anything  in  the  world  stand 
between  them.  Of  course  I  want  to  believe 
that !  But  I  'd  like  to  get  your  unemotional 
opinion.  You  probably  belong  to  a  Family 
also,  and  will  look  at  it  from  a  worldly  point 
of  view  and  not  just  a  sympathetic,  human 
293 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


point  of  view  —  so  you  see  how  brave  I  am 
to  lay  it  before  you. 

Suppose  I  go  to  him  and  explain  that  the 
trouble  is  n't  Jimmie,  but  is  the  John  Grier 
Home  —  would  that  be  a  dreadful  thing  for 
me  to  do?  It  would  take  a  great  deal  of 
courage.  I 'd  almost  rather  be  miserable  for 
the  rest  of  my  life. 

This  happened  nearly  two  months  ago; 
I  have  n't  heard  a  word  from  him  since  he 
wras  here.  I  was  just  getting  sort  of  accli- 
mated to  the  feeling  of  a  broken  heart,  when 
a  letter  came  from  Julia  that  stirred  me  all 
up  again.  She  said  —  very  casually  —  that 
"  Uncle  Jervis "  had  been  caught  out  all 
night  in  a  storm  when  he  was  hunting  in 
Canada,  and  had  been  ill  ever  since  with 
pneumonia.  And  I  never  knew  it.  I  was 
feeling  hurt  because  he  had  just  disappeared 
into  blankness  without  a  word.  I  think  he 's 
pretty  unhappy,  and  I  know  I  am ! 

What  seems  to  you  the  right  thing  for  me 
to  do? 

Judy. 

2Q4 


October  6th. 

Dearest  Daddy^-Long-Legs, 

Yes,  certainly  I'll  come  —  at  half-past 
four  next  Wednesday  afternoon.  Of  course 
I  can  find  the  way.  I  've  been  in  New  York 
three  times  and  am  not  quite  a  baby.-  I 
can't  believe  that  I  am  really  going  to  see 
you  —  I 've  been  just  thinking  you  so  long 
that  it  hardly  seems  as  though  you  are  a 
tangible  flesh-and-blood  person. 

You  are  awfully  good,  Daddy,  to  bother 
yourself  with  me,  when  you  're  not  strong. 
Take  care  and  don't  catch  cold.  These  fall 
rains  are  very  damp. 

Affectionately, 

Judy. 

P.  S.    I 've  just  had  an  awful  thought. 
Have  you  a  butler?    I 'm  afraid  of  butlers, 
295 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

and  if  one  opens  the  door  I  shall  faint  upon 
the  step.  What  can  I  say  to  him?  You 
did  n't  tell  me  your  name.  Shall  I  ask  for 
Mr.  Smith? 


296 


Thursday  Morning. 

My  very  dearest  Master-] '  ervie-Daddy-Long- 
Legs-P  endleton-Smith, 

Did  you  sleep  last  night?  I  did  n't.  Not 
a  single  wink.  I  was  too  amazed  and  ex- 
cited and  bewildered  and  happy.  I  don't  be- 
lieve I  ever  shall  sleep  again  —  or  eat  either. 
But  I  hope  you  slept ;  you  must,  you  know, 
because  then  you  will  get  well  faster  and 
can  come  to  me. 

Dear  Man,  I  can't  bear  to  think  how  ill 
you  Ve  been  —  and  all  the  time  I  never  knew 
it.  When  the  doctor  came  down  yesterday 
to  put  me  in  the  cab,  he  told  me  that  for 
three  days  they  gave  you  up.  Oh,  dearest, 
if  that  had  happened,  the  light  would  have 
gone  out  of  the  world  for  me.  I  suppose 
that  some  day  —  in  the  far  future  —  one  of 
us  must  leave  the  other ;  but  at  least  we  shall 
297 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


have  had  our  happiness  and  there  will  be 
memories  to  live  with. 

I  meant  to  cheer  you  up  —  and  instead  I 
have  to  cheer  myself.  For  in  spite  of  being 
happier  than  I  ever  dreamed  I  could  be,  I 'm 
also  soberer.  The  fear  that  something  may 
happen  to  you  rests  like  a  shadow  on  my 
heart.  Always  before  I  could  be  frivolous 
and  care-free  and  unconcerned,  because  I 
had  nothing  precious  to  lose.  But  now  —  I 
shall  have  a  Great  Big  Worry  all  the  rest  of 
my  life.  Whenever  you  are  away  from  me 
I  shall  be  thinking  of  all  the  automobiles  that 
can  run  over  you,  or  the  sign-boards  that 
can  fall  on  your  head  or  the  dreadful, 
squirmy  germs  that  you  may  be  swallowing. 
My  peace  of  mind  is  gone  forever  —  but  any- 
way, I  never  cared  much  for  just  plain  peace. 

Please  get  well  —  fast  —  fast  —  fast.  I 
want  to  have  you  close  by  where  I  can  touch 
you  and  make  sure  you  are  tangible.  Such 
a  little  half  hour  we  had  together!  I'm 
afraid  maybe  I  dreamed  it.  If  I  were  only 
298 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


a  member  of  your  family  (a  very  distant 
fourth  cousin)  then  I  could  come  and  visit 
you  every  day,  and  read  aloud  and  plump 
up  your  pillow  and  smooth  out  those  two 
little  wrinkles  in  your  forehead  and  make 
the  corners  of  your  mouth  turn  up  in  a  nice 
cheerful  smile.  But  you  are  cheerful  again, 
aren't  you?  You  were  yesterday  before  I 
left.  The  doctor  said  I  must  be  a  good 
nurse,  that  you  looked  ten  years  younger. 
I  hope  that  being  in  love  does  n't  make 
every  one  ten  years  younger.  Will  you  still 
care  for  me,  darling,  if  I  turn  out  to  be  only 
eleven  ? 

Yesterday  was  the  most  wonderful  day 
that  could  ever  happen.  If  I  live  to  be 
ninety-nine  I  shall  never  forget  the  tiniest 
detail.  The  girl  that  left  Lock  Willow  at 
dawn  was  a  very  different  person  from  the 
one  who  came  back  at  night.  Mrs.  Semple 
called  me  at  half-past  four.  I  started  wide 
awake  in  the  darkness  and  the  first  thought 
that  popped  into  my  head  was,  "  I  am  going 
299 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


to  see  Daddy-Long-Legs !  "  I  ate  breakfast 
in  the  kitchen  by  candle-light,  and  then  drove 
the  five  miles  to  the  station  through  the  most 
glorious  October  coloring.  The  sun  came 
up  on  the  way,  and  the  swamp  maples  and 
dogwood  glowed  crimson  and  orange  and' 
the  stone  walls  and  cornfields  sparkled  with 
hoar  frost;  the  air  was  keen  and  clear  and 
full  of  promise.  I  knew  something  was 
going  to  happen.  All  the  way  in  the  train 
the  rails  kept  singing,  "  You  're  going  to  see 
Daddy-Long-Legs."  It  made  me  feel  se- 
cure. I  had  such  faith  in  Daddy's  ability  to 
set  things  right.  And  I  knew  that  some- 
where another  man  —  dearer  than  Daddy  — 
was  wanting  to  see  me,  and  somehow  I  had 
a  feeling  that  before  the  journey  ended  I 
should  meet  him,  too.    And  you  see ! 

When  I  came  to  the  house  on  Madison 
Avenue  it  looked  so  big  and  brown  and  for- 
bidding that  I  did  n't  dare  go  in,  so  I  walked 
around  the  block  to  get  up  my  courage.  But 
300 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


I  needn't  have  been  a  bit  afraid;  your  but- 
ler is  such  a  nice,  fatherly  old  man  that  he 
made  me  feel  at  home  at  once.  "  Is  this 
Miss  Abbott?"  he  said  to  me,  and  I  said, 
"  Yes,"  so  I  did  n't  have  to  ask  for  Mr. 
Smith  after  all.  He  told  me  to  wait  in  the 
drawing-room.  It  was  a  very  somber,  mag- 
nificent, man's  sort  of  room.  I  sat  down 
on  the  edge  of  a  big  upholstered  chair  and 
kept  saying  to  myself : 

"  I 'm  going  to  see  Daddy-Long-Legs ! 
I 'm  going  to  see  Daddy-Long-Legs !  " 

Then  presently  the  man  came  back  and 
asked  me  please  to  step  up  to  the  library.  I 
was  so  excited  that  really  and  truly  my  feet 
would  hardly  take  me  up.  Outside  the  door 
he  turned  and  whispered,  "  He 's  been  very 
ill,  Miss.  This  is  the  first  day  he 's  been 
allowed  to  sit  up.  You  '11  not  stay  long- 
enough  to  excite  him  ?  "  I  knew  from  the 
way  he  said  it  that  he  loved  you  —  and  I 
think  he 's  an  old  dear ! 

301 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


Then  he  knocked  and  said,  "  Miss  Ab- 
bott," and  I  went  in  and  the  door  closed  be- 
hind me. 

It  was  so  dim  coming  in  from  the  brightly 
lighted  hall  that  for  a  moment  I  could 
scarcely  make  out  anything ;  then  I  saw  a  big 
easy  chair  before  the  fire  and  a  shining  tea 
table  with  a  smaller  chair  beside  it.  And  I 
realized  that  a  man  was  sitting  in  the  big 
chair  propped  up  by  pillows  with  a  rug  over 
his  knees.  Before  I  could  stop  him  he  rose 
—  sort  of  shakily  —  and  steadied  himself  by 
the  back  of  the  chair  and  just  looked  at  me 
without  a  word.  And  then  —  and  then  — 
I  saw  it  was  you!  But  even  with  that  I 
did  n't  understand.  I  thought  Daddy  had 
had  you  come  there  to  meet  me  for  a  sur- 
prise. 

Then  you  laughed  and  held  out  your  hand 
and  said,  "  Dear  little  Judy,  could  n't  you 
guess  that  I  was  Daddy-Long-Legs  ?  " 

In  an  instant  it  flashed  over  me.  Oh,  but 
I  have  been  stupid !  A  hundred  little  things 
302 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


might  have  told  me,  if  I  had  had  any  wits.  I 
would  n't  make  a  very  good  detective,  would 
I,  Daddy  ?  — ■  Jervie  ?  What  must  I  call 
you  ?  Just  plain  Jervie  sounds  disrespectful, 
and  I  can't  be  disrespectful  to  you ! 

It  was  a  very  sweet  half  hour  before  your 
doctor  came  and  sent  me  away.  I  was  so 
dazed  when  I  got  to  the  station  that  I  al- 
most took  a  train  for  St.  Louis.  And  you 
were  pretty  dazed,  too.  You  forgot  to  give 
me  any  tea.  But  we  're  both  very,  very 
happy,  are  n't  we  ?  I  drove  back  to  Lock 
Willow  in  the  dark  —  but  oh,  how  the  stars 
were  shining !  And  this  morning  I 've  been 
out  with  Colin  visiting  all  the  places  that 
you  and  I  went  to  together,  and  remember- 
ing what  you  said  and  how  you  looked.  The 
woods  to-day  are  burnished  bronze  and  the 
air  is  full  of  frost.  It 's  climbing  weather. 
I  wish  you  were  here  to  climb  the  hills  with 
me.  I  am  missing  you  dreadfully,  Jervie 
dear,  but  it 's  a  happy  kind  of  missing;  we  '11 
be  together  soon.  We  belong  to  each  other 
303 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


now  really  and  truly,  no  make-believe. 
Does  n't  it  seem  queer  for  me  to  belong  tc 
some  one  at  last?  It  seems  very,  very 
sweet. 

And  I  shall  never  let  you  be  sorry  for  a 
single  instant. 

Yours,  forever  and  ever, 

Judy. 

P.  S.  This  is  the  first  love  letter  I  ever 
wrote.    Is  n't  it  funny  that  I  know  how? 


THE  END 


304 


fTU, 
V 


3s 

mm 


